


The Ghost Of You

by alien_turnip



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Dark, Dragon Age II Spoilers, F/M, Gen, Ghost Hawke, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, There is a lot of deaths in general, With a lot of talking, generally just two people (or spirits) sorting out their baggages, ghost au, i think, major character death but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:54:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27296740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alien_turnip/pseuds/alien_turnip
Summary: “What are you?” Anders blurted out.Hawke blinked innocently at him, then smiled. “What does it matter? I can claim to be a spirit, yet people would still call me a demon. I can’t possess you, because you’re already possessed. I’m not possessing anyone either. For some reason, I’m still staying in this Maker-forsaken world. Does it matter what I am, if I’m doing no harm to no one?”--------------One night, when Anders was pursued by the templars, he discovered a passage that led to the wine cellar of the abandoned Amell Estate. A spirit greeted him there, and they eventually formed an uncanny relationship.
Relationships: Anders/Female Hawke, Anders/Hawke (Dragon Age)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 58





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is made as part of my [art collab with the amazing, amazing leyrey](https://alienturnipp.tumblr.com/post/633466061504888832/what-are-you-anders-blurted-out-hawke-blinked) on Tumblr. The writing part was totally an impulse decision, but oh boy here we are. I haven't really seriously written anything until this one, so it got me quite nervous, but we will see where it goes, won't we?
> 
> Also a big thank you to my dear beta reader (I know you're reading this!) who listened to all my crap and took the effort to go through my draft. I'm sure there will be more to come.
> 
> Title was inspired by My Chemical Romance - The Ghost Of You.

“You know, most people would be scared into leaving right now.” 

Her voice slithered through nooks and crannies of the dark room, resounding in a litany of echoes. A light breeze grazed the back of his neck like a chilly breath, briefly caressing his cheek before pulling away. Anders turned to look at the translucent figure behind him: thick streams of blood still oozed from the gaping wound on her chest, turning the already-red tunic a crimson shade, dark and stained like wilted flowers. Heavy drops vanished before they even hit the ground, and her feet rested lightly on the dusty, stagnant air of the abandoned library. Where the blood didn’t soak through, he could see traces of bones and ribcage showing.

The healer in him wanted to reach out and stop the bleeding, while Justice bristled and hissed at the presence of another spirit. Perhaps a demon.

And said spirit – demon? – seemed to notice the tension in his shoulders and the way he cautiously put a hand on his staff, for she curled her lips into an amused smirk and hang back, locking gaze with him. Keeping his voice light, Anders replied.

“Most people aren’t running from templars.” The urge to add in a sarcastic retort was suddenly interrupted by wariness and heavy apprehension. How long had she – _no, it_ – been here, outside of the Fade, claiming this part of the real world for itself? What sources had it been drawing its power from? The spirit’s presence was strong and heavy: if this situation erupted into a fight, it would be one from which Anders wouldn’t survive unscathed.

 _Very helpful, Justice,_ he snorted. Then added, despite the warning. “And your wine cellar was empty, so I invited myself in.”

The spirit chuckled. “No spirits left in there, I know. If you catch my drift.” It was a terrible joke, but Anders was more focused on the way the spirit’s whole figure flickered with each syllable, like candlelight caught in the wind. It moved closer, circling slowly atop his head, almost curiously so. “It has dwindled since the Carta and scavengers lockpicked their way in. You are… a refreshing change of company from the dwarves and the stinky-handed humans, I must admit. I can feel such _familiar_ presence within you.”

“We are nothing alike, _demon._ ” Anders snapped and took a step away, staff no longer behind his back but thrust forward in a challenging gesture. Justice growled in warning. _Great, just great, getting away from templars just to run head straight into a demon instead. I’m finally going up in the world._

“Aren’t we? _Abomination_ ,” the demon purred, one hand gesturing vaguely between them. “A bit of pot-and-kettle over there, isn’t it? I should be affronted that you called me names right in my estate, but my manners are lacking as well.”

“…Excuse me?”

“My name is Hawke, if you don’t mind calling me anything other than 'demon.'” At the strange introduction and even stranger name, Anders starred. The demon – Hawke – raised a finger and continued. “And since I’m playing host to an intruder – generous, I know – let me just go ahead and say this before you decide to shoot fireballs at me: You are a prickly one, but powerful. I won’t fight you if you keep your hands to yourself. Violence brings me no pleasure. Well, not _as much_ as a good conversation does, anyway.”

…‘A good conversation’? Was this a demon’s way of tricking him into… into what? But then again, what sort of demon would attempt to possess someone already housing a spirit anyway? If this demon was looking to gain something from him, he was not going to give it away, whatever that might be.

Perhaps sensing his hesitation, the demon shook its head, then added. “Look, the templars you were running from, they wouldn’t go away anytime soon. I’m a local, and this estate has an amazing window view, so I know their way. Besides, no one wanted or dared to come here anymore – except you – so you can leave whenever you want. No offense, no hostility, just maybe a little talk. About anything! Fellow spirits – demons, ghosts, whatever – helping each other out, what do you think?”

For a moment, Anders thought he almost heard in its voice a desperate annoyance, and… and loneliness. The corner of his eyes twitched uncomfortably.

“Sounds awfully like demon talk, _Hawke._ ” Anders’s grip on the staff slackened just a bit, but he kept it pointed toward the demon nonetheless.

The demon looked at him for a tensed moment of silence, then its whole frame seemed to shrink back, arms rested on its hip in a defeated – if somewhat overly dramatic – posture. 

“Alright, alright, Prickly One. No more talk for today. Well… as long as you don’t start throwing fireballs, my door is open for you, in case of – you know – templars. Not that it can be closed now, anyway.”

It hung its head and, with a quiet sigh, left Anders alone for the evening.

\-------------------

A week later, after Anders had turned off the clinic’s lantern and dragged his tired body to the nearest cot, his mind wandered back to the strange encounter in the abandoned mansion. Like bubbles on boiled water, questions surged in his head and, just like the many times when they had come up before, remained unanswered. Anders had to admit, all this mysterious unknowable business grated on his nerves. Despite the Veil being stretched thin as a leaf around the estate, the spirit they encountered was, by all definitions, outside of the Fade. It might as well have remained there for years. The ugly fight he expected never happened, and it had left Anders to his own devices after the stifled introduction.

 _My door is open for you_ , it had said. Demon or not, it wasn’t possessing any living thing, yet it was still lingering outside the Fade after all these years. If such a thing was possible, that meant—

Right, guess Justice was just as disturbed as he was by the whole ordeal.

\-------------------

Anders hurried down the damp and dirty sewer, squeezing himself under the shadows, his steps as light as he could make it. The clang of heavy armor echoed through the back door of his clinic, only barely muffled by shouts and the sound of potions being smashed and shelves knocked over. He forced himself to look away and kept on running, teeth gritted tightly. _Cursed templars, can’t even take a piss without them breathing down my neck._

A part of him – one that wasn’t entirely focused on immediate survival – knew that the templars were getting bolder and closer. The raids in his clinic were becoming more frequent by the day, and only the efforts of the Darktown residents he had healed, along with a number of Carta and Coterie members, were keeping him alive and ahead of danger. Justice – or himself, he didn’t know anymore – kept raging over the waste of medicines, of bandages, over the time spent running and hiding, over the fate of mages still locked up in the Gallows – _Karl, he still needs my help, but I can’t come now—_

His fingers held too tightly onto his coat pocket, above a letter that was crumpled and pressed time and time over, the words now muddled but etched in his memory like a haunting dream. Anders breathed, then reminded himself of the tasks at hand. He needed to save his own skin first, then he would find a way to get to Karl. Everything else could come after.

Eventually, the wine cellar door of the Amell Estate neared his vision. _My door is open for you…_ Anders’s steps halted. Uneasiness gripped the back of his mind and, strangely enough, restless curiosity. He had half-expected a stark refusal from Justice at least… 

_Justice?_ His inquiry was hit with a wave of annoyance. _Huh, so you_ are _curious. Who would’ve thought…._

For better or worse, he ended up having no better options to choose from. In the distance, Anders heard the echo of a bang, of another, then of a loud crack as the clinic’s back door finally dislodged from its hinges. As if on cue, the cellar door creaked open quietly, a breeze brushed past his ear as if urging him to come in. Anders nearly snorted at the very-subtle invitation, while apprehension, intrigue, and _common sense_ had an ugly quarrel in his head. 

Armored steps are spreading through the sewers. After a moment of hesitation, he allowed himself a tired, tired sigh, then slipped in the cellar. The door shut closed, just as quietly as it opened. Shadow engulfed him for a brief moment, then blue veilfire lit up from an empty chandelier on the far wall.

“Hawke?” Anders called.

The stairs groaned under his boots. Anders trod carefully through moth-eaten carpets and empty hallways, veilfire lit up for him as he went. Tattered curtains obscured the moonlight, leaving only tiny rays of dust-filled white light creeping through, but even those looked foreign, outcasted – almost intimidated – by the line of veilfire painting the walls in eerie blue and green. Anders conjured a light wisp, for his own comfort if anything.

 _Into the dragon’s lair. Right, not creepy at all, Hawke._

“If this is your idea of a warm welcome, it’s no wonder why people call you a demon,” he said out loud to the empty space.

“Yet you came back.”

Anders almost jumped, despite himself. The voice – irritatingly familiar – seemed to come from everywhere at once, but a light breeze brushed his hair teasingly from above. Anders looked up at the high ceiling, and there Hawke was, dangling from the chandelier and looking at him with a lazy smile. _Like a bat, no, an octopus_ , he thought, noting the way the lower body faded and split into smoky tendrils that slid through the chandelier’s intricate metalwork, holding on them in tender grips. Streams of blood still oozed from the spirit’s chest wound; the drops quickly faded before touching his face.

Hawke’s smile widened when their eyes met, and the spirit slowly let go of the chandelier.

“I would’ve gone for a homier setting, but sadly I’m out of candles.” Hawke was circling languidly in circles, just like last time. It did nothing for his comfort. The spirit continued. “It seems Fate drove us together again. The Maker move in mysterious ways, isn’t it? Or should I say the templars?”

“What are you?” Anders blurted out.

Hawke blinked innocently at him, then smiled. “What does it matter? I can claim to be a spirit, yet people would still call me a demon. I can’t possess you, because you’re already possessed. I’m not possessing anyone either. For some reason, I’m still staying in this Maker-forsaken world. Does it matter what I am, if I’m doing no harm to no one?”

Anders regarded the spirit with weary eyes.

“Every spirit or demon embodies something.”

To Anders’s surprise, Hawke looked away. “I don’t know.”

“You… don’t?”

“No,” Hawke said simply. “It’s… complicated. I was not originally a denizen of the Fade, if you’re curious.” 

The spirit retreated toward the curved stairs to the second floor, one bony finger crooked, beckoning Anders to follow. She led him in front of a painting that hung on the wall facing the foyer, and he found himself looking at a young and beautiful woman clad in a form-fitting gown. Through several patches of dirt and discoloring, he could still make out a pair of blue eyes; her dark, short hair framing tall cheekbones, full lips slightly crooked into a half-smile that looked strangely familiar.

“I’ve always thought it looked way too flattering. The painter sure tried his best to bring out the lady in me.” Hawke sighed loudly from beside him. The spirit was also looking at the painting, and _oh,_ he realized with a click, _that was her._ “My mother commissioned this portrait shortly after we moved in,” Hawke continued, running a ghostly hand over a crest that he assumed was the Amell family’s heraldry. “Wanted to find me a suitor, now that we were finally moving up _back_ in the world. Maker, I remember the gown though. It was utterly uncomfortable.”

“You… were a mortal,” Anders breathed. “I’ve… I’ve heard of mortal souls being trapped in the Fade, back at the Blackmarsh, but—” 

“You serious? Who would name a place Blackmarsh?” Hawke snorted. Anders ignored it.

“But for a mortal soul to _not_ cross the Fade to the Maker’s side… That they remain, not simply as fragments of memories, but a conscient spirit…”

Hawke shrugged. “Shows what you know. I certainly didn’t plan to wake up like this after my supposed eternal dream.”

“Maker…” Anders rubbed his eyes. He needed time to digest this.

“Well…” Hawke added, tentatively. “If I was merely a fragment of Hawke’s memories, then she certainly had a sparkling character, just saying.”

Eyes still hidden behind his palm, Anders let out a dry chuckle. 

“So?” Hawke asked. “Does that satisfy your scholarly curiosity?”

Anders sat in silence for a moment, then slowly turned to look at the spirit. Hawke’s face was gaunt, much unlike the woman from the painting; he could see faint traces of deep eye sockets underneath translucent skin and, occasionally, the shape of a skull under glowing hair. Yet the way the spirit looked at him – piercing blue eyes, that lazy smile – was just so definitely, unmistakably _her._

“You’re not possessing anything,” he said.

“I’m not possessing _anyone._ Not sure I can say the same about this Estate, as you can see.” Hawke made a vague gesture at the vast, empty space, filled with dust and stale air and flickering veilfire.

“Charming spot.”

“It _was_ charming,” Hawke retorted. “The window view is still amazing, if you bother to pull the curtains.”

“So you… what? Just decide to lounge around until the mansion crumbles to dust?”

“Hey, not that I can leave.” Hawke’s lips pursed into a pout. “But Serah Inquisitive, you asked way too many questions in one night for your host, you know. This little conversation we’re having is lovely and all, but information should go both ways, don’t you think?”

Anders tilted his head. “We are still practically strangers.”

“Yet I let you ask snooping questions.”

“Hmm, you might very well be lying.”

“Not an ounce of trust in me? After everything I’ve done to help? I’m wounded.” Hawke pointed as her chest, blood and all. 

Anders couldn’t help but laugh. “Forgive me if I still find this talk… unnatural, if you will.”

Hawke snorted. “Right, fair. But if you’re going to stay and talk to me, give me something to work with. Your name, for example? I can’t report you to the Templars as it is. Or, I don’t know, your spirit’s name, if you prefer to go by that.”

“Maker, no. Justice prefers to go by himself… You can call me Anders.” He conceded.

Hawke rubbed a hand under her chin, eyes studying him attentively. 

“ _Anders and Justice,_ ” She purred, testing the names on her lips, “it’s no wonder you’re prickly. You have a spirit of Justice in your head.”

“Who was very intrigued about how you managed to survive outside of the Fade without a body, all things considered. But, well, if one can possess an object, a whole mansion is… not too farfetched, either.” 

“Self-discovery is not my forte, so I really can’t tell you more. Even if I want to.” 

Anders sat down on the floor, his back leaning just slightly on the railing, still wondering if the whole thing would be falling off. Hawke, on the other hand, casually perched on it like a bird. Anders looked at the painting again and tried to make a guess at how the picture would look like without all the grime and dirt. He agreed that it might look very flattering.

“Can’t say I’m entirely sold on this whole,” he waved his hand, “thing, but you’re charming, I’ll give you that.”

“See, we’re getting somewhere at last, Anders!” Hawke clapped her hands together enthusiastically, no sound coming out of it. The spirit seemed to deem it safe to start a casual conversation, for she ventured. “So, what is an apostate doing in Kirkwall? I can’t imagine the city being welcoming to curious mages running amok.”

Anders settled on giving a relatively safe truth. “I have a clinic in Darktown, just nearby. Its back door leads here. Fugitives from the Blight and poor people down there can’t get the sort of luxury treatment Hightown people are used to, so they come for me instead. They help keep me alive and away from Templars in return.”

“So you’re a healer? A man of the people, wearing feathers and threadbare clothes, helping the poor and needy? You must make quite a sight.” Hawke made a rather poor attempt at a wink.

“Apparently the templars agree with you. Showed up on my door more than once.” Anders nodded.

And just like that, they kept talking through the night, dancing around dangerous waters, each settling on small, lighthearted discussions without giving too much away. For all that Justice was on constant guard, Anders found himself enjoying the pleasant exchange of words, drawn in by Hawke’s captivating tales of her past-life exploits: a year spent smuggling for an elf named Athenril, a particular infiltration in an Orlesian Estate, and a mine on Sundermount filled with dragons big and small, long since closed. Hawke guffawed over his stories of the Wardens at Vigil’s Keep, going so far as to inquire about how differently Justice and he remember the same event. She seemed to glow brighter with each laugh, and Anders, to his surprise later, eventually relaxed in the middle of the dimly lit veilfire and tattered furniture.

He didn’t allow himself to stay for long, however. The Templars had likely left for the night, and he needed to go back and assess the damage done to his clinic. Shelves to fix, potions to prepare, _another_ shopping list to make, people to inquire so that he could decide whether to reopen the clinic or lay low for a while. And there was also the matter of Karl’s letter. Tonight’s accident had probably burnt any favors he’d gathered to defuse the templars, which meant Anders would have to find another way to get to him soon. If the templars’ suspicion was as strong as Karl wrote, he probably wouldn’t be safe for much longer.

With that thought, Anders’s mood soured, his mind steeled. He stood up, bid Hawke a short farewell, and made his way back to the wine cellar below. Hawke followed him to the cellar and, with a flourish, gestured for the door to open.

“Next time, if you will come back, I should properly introduce you to my library.” She inclined her head toward the open door and, with another smile, vanished into the shadow. 


	2. Chapter 2

His hands hurt from all the scrubbing, but he didn’t care. The water in the washing basin had gotten a reddish tint, his coat sleeve had blood taint on it, and for one long moment of blinding anguish, anger and _grief_ , Anders believed his hands would never be clean again. His eyes burnt and blurred; he was dimly aware that he was talking to himself, but whatever words he muttered made no sense amidst the incoherent thoughts in his head, screaming, crying, wanting to _get out._

 _Tranquil. Dead. They took him away from me and I killed him._

Void take the templars. Void take _him._ When he was wallowing in Darktown, running and hiding again and again and again, they had made Karl Tranquil, made him talk, made him turn against the Mage Underground, against Anders, against everything that they had stood for. _This is my fault,_ he thought. He was too late, couldn’t act on the letter soon enough, couldn’t come soon enough, couldn’t help, couldn’t save him, couldn’t fix any damn thing that had gone wrong in his life—

No. This self-pity could not stand. Karl’s Tranquility was another proof among many that the templars had gone too far. They had no rights to make a Harrowed mage Tranquil; the First Enchanter couldn’t have allowed it, it was Meredith and her templars who had stepped beyond the line while the Chantry turned a blind eye. He had to do something about it, _strike a blow,_ he had the power now. Karl was just one mage amongst hundreds who were wronged under the clutch of the Gallows—

“Damn you Justice, _leave me_ _alone!_ ” He cried, throwing the cleaning cloth into the basin with too much force; the metal object wobbled and clanged against uneven ground before slowly quieting, water spilled all over. Justice – thankfully – retreated again to the back of his mind. The fire quieted, and he was once again alone.

Stifling back a sob, Anders raised his head. The clinic remained dark, but he knew the night was fading. Soon enough the sun would rise, and he would have patients outside the door, waiting for the lantern to be lit and for whatever relief he could bring to their pains and ailments. 

Anders slowly unclenched his hands and brought them over his face. He let out a long, exhausted breath, and allowed himself to sit in silence for a while longer.

\-------------------

The cellar door of the Amell Estate was unlocked when Anders visited that night, and the walls and empty chandeliers were already lit with veilfire. Hawke was drifting about in the middle of the foyer with a bored expression, a book hovering just in front of her face. A tattered broom was slowly brushing across the floor, gathering thick layers of dust and cobwebs into a dustpan, one that was long rusted and broken at the handle. Anders didn’t think he ever saw anything whole in the estate.

“Good evening, Anders. Please don’t mind Ser Broom and Ser Dustpan,” Hawke lifted her gaze away from the book to greet him.

“I see you’ve taken up some chores,” Anders said.

“I thought now that I have a visitor, I should make an effort at cleaning up,” Hawke nodded languidly. The book in front of her face snapped shut with a dusty sound and settled down on top of a long table. She gestured toward a sofa on the left – starkly clean compared to the rest of the foyer – and he sat down silently, hands folded together on his lap.

Anders was not sure why he decided to come here in the first place. His whole body felt like a sack of lead, heavy and stiff, and he was so, so tired. His trek up here from the clinic had been slow and painful – eyelids threatening to close with every step he took – but something kept tugging at the back of his mind, faintly but persistently.

From the corner of his eyes, Hawke watched on, seemingly waiting for a reaction. When none came, she drew close, hovering just in front of him, her expression a flicker of curiosity and… worry?

“Your mind is heavy tonight,” she said, “Well, it always is, but tonight more so than usual.”

“You can tell?”

“Your spirit is upset. I can feel it. Like he was slamming his fists on the bars of a prison cell, and the room is closing up around him.”

“Hawke, stop,” Anders whispered, hands rubbing frantically against his eyelids.

At that, Hawke fell silent. A blanket of stillness seemed to cover them both; then, just slightly, Anders felt a cold breeze brushing against his side. He turned and saw her at the other end of the sofa, eyebrows knitted together in deep thought.

They said nothing for a long time, until Anders leaned back against the sofa and sighed, his voice low.

“I hav—had a... friend, a mage, imprisoned in the Gallows. I first came to Kirkwall to help, to free him, but the Templars caught wind of my plan. He sent a letter to warn me of their suspicions but I… couldn’t act soon enough.”

Hawked shifted slightly but didn’t say anything, her silent gaze focused on him attentively. Anders swallowed and, after collecting himself, continued.

“The templars turned him Tranquil and used him to lure me out. _Bastards_ are now cold corpses lying on the Chantry floor, but Karl, he… He begged me to kill him, and I did.” Anders looked at his hand, the one that held the dagger and dealt the fatal blow. He could still feel warm blood soaking his fingers, tracing the lines of his palm. 

Dead men could still bleed, it seemed. 

Hawke had fallen still at the other end of the sofa, her own bleeding wound hidden behind her knees, which were now drawn up in her arms and tucked under her chin. Instead of relief, Anders suddenly felt very barren and vulnerable. She was still looking at him, and he exhaled shakily, turning away.

“I am… sorry for your loss. It sounded like a dreary affair.” She finally offered.

He gave her a stiff nod of acknowledgment. “Thank you.”

“The Gallows was much feared during my time. I see that it has not gotten better.”

“Damn right it hasn’t,” he spat. “Not here, not anywhere. We are not people to them. If you’re born with magic, they hear about it. They search your little rat-spit village and find you. They tell your parents they’ll be thrown in prison if they ever ask about you, stripped of their rights in the eyes of the Maker.” He felt the Fade stinging around him and the telltale cold breeze of Hawke shuffling on the sofa, but he was too angry to hear his own words. The can of worms was open. “And if you run away, they will hunt you down. _Again and again and again._ ”

“Anders. Or Justice, whichever you are right now… You’re getting all glowy.”

As Hawke spoke, Anders whipped his head at her direction. In his anger-fueled mind, he realized that he had moved away from the sofa and was now pacing on the floor. She was looking at him, eyes wide, but also leaning forward. Anders continued, indignant, voice ringing through the empty foyer.

“Karl was dear to me, so they twisted and turned his mind against me. They cut a man from the Fade just to get to an apostate. How is that just? How can they hold so much power over us, that these atrocities are allowed to happen? What Maker would give them that right?!”

Hawke’s hand reached out toward his shoulder. She didn't manage to draw near, but Anders jerked away as if burned. Hawke flinched at his reaction, but thankfully retreated back to her place on the sofa.

“I’m sure I would enjoy wrecking some templar necks with you, Anders.” She said, a tad placatingly, but her emotions seemed sincere. He saw a flash of a bitter grin. “Not so sure about what the Maker would consider questionable, though, as far as the Chantry is concerned.” 

The blatant blasphemy from that statement startled Anders into a hollow laugh. The fire died down, and he dropped heavily back on the sofa. His eyes tracked the flickering veilfire on the wall, and Hawke’s eyes were tracking him.

“Your friend... He was harrowed?” Hawke asked, hesitant.

“Yes, and so couldn’t have been legally made Tranquil. Even if he wasn’t, no one should deserve that fate. It’s worse than death itself.” He scoffed.

Hawke’s brows furrowed but she only offered a silent nod. Anders sighed; he closed his eyes and willed himself to calm down.

“My apologies. I shouldn’t come to your house and yell at you like this.”

Hawke waved a hand. “It was a heavy topic, yes, though I won’t say the same about your company. Not that I’m glad about your situation, but about… you know.”

In spite of himself, Anders still didn’t know why he decided to tell this story to a spirit in a haunted mansion. But she hadn’t done anything but lending an ear, so he pulled at his embarrassment and worry, tucking them deeper down. As those thoughts went away, a sudden question rose in their place, and he asked just as abruptly.

“Hawke. Do you… feel alive?”

Hawke looked at him with a puzzled expression.

“What do you mean?” She asked.

“You died. You _are_ dead. But now you’re sitting here, talking to me. Does that-- is there--… Does it feel any different from when you were alive?”

She watched him for a moment as if contemplating her answer.

“I don’t have a body, Anders. I can lift a broom with a thought now but... before this, I couldn’t touch anything nor talk to anyone,” her voice grew quieter, “although I doubt I would be able to make any difference outside of this Estate. Haven’t gone out, haven’t tried.”

“Would you wish to change it? To end it all?”

“’End it’?” Hawke snorted. “I get used to it. A lot of mental exercises required, but here I am. I feel powerful and magical all right, as long as I don’t go out. Not a bad deal don’t you think? Maybe before…” She stopped for a moment. “I don’t ask myself existential questions often, Anders. Alive or not, I still have my emotions, and I deal with them as they come."

Anders mulled over the ambiguous answer in his head. A chuckle found a way to escape his throat. “Andraste's knickerweasels, this is strange. I’m inquiring of a dead person's spirit about their aliveness, yet I can’t imagine how it would feel to have a physical body with no emotion inside me.”

Hawke pulled herself up from the sofa and was again hovering in the air. Something shuffled at the corner of the foyer, and Anders saw the broom and dustpan picked themselves up to resume their lazy sweeping motions. Hawke offered him a small smile.

“Or we can leave the profound questions for when you’re not dead on your feet and mind or cracking blue. I believe we have a library to check out?” She gestured her hand, and the cold breeze briefly caressed his cheek. Anders gave her a tired smile in return.

“I was already there the first time we met.”

“But you didn’t check out what I have. I knew this mouthy dwarf once, he wrote all sorts of horrible literature. And I was his friend, you see, so I had to keep at least one book whenever he published something, supporting your loved ones and all that. If you don’t want to go back to your clinic yet, then come.”

Without waiting for an answer, she turned and drifted toward the direction of the library, the book from before flew from the long table to her hand with a fluid motion. Anders figured it was as much an invitation as he could get.

… Despite how tired he was, he wasn’t yet ready to face sleep. Anders pushed himself from the sofa and followed Hawke into the library, veilfire lighting up their path in pulsing, flickering rhythm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School is killing me right now, but hopefully we'll get an update soon!


	3. Chapter 3

“Thanks for your help this time, Anders!”

“It was my pleasure,” Anders put the cork on the last of his newly brewed elfroot potions and gave it a final twist. “How is it going in the Alienage? I haven't gone there for so long.”

“Oh, no trouble, no trouble at all! It was very nice of you to ask, though.” the petite Dalish elf scratched behind her ears, the tips of her red nails darkened from picking herbs all afternoon. “I still got lost after living here for so long, can you believe? My last trip to the market took me four hours to get home. Sometimes I wish I have a ball of twine perhaps, something that can help me trace back the way I came. Lowtown is just so different from the forests, no leaves, no trees, smells all mixed up… Oh, I’m sorry, did I sidetrack? You probably didn’t ask about those details.”

Anders was, in fact, just putting his potions on the nearby shelf. “No, no, Merrill, it’s all good. The wild cats might catch on the twine and get it all messed up though.”

“Oh, that’s right! I haven’t thought of it that way. Cats do play a lot. They scratch at my feet whenever I’m buying food… But, yes, the Alienage.” She coughed slightly. “After that trouble with Feynriel, the templars haven’t gone down there as much, so I can get out and help around more. It was a good thing you showed up back then! I wouldn’t have been able to help him myself.”

Anders nodded. It was a chance meeting indeed, Anders being on his way to see a patient in the Alienage when he overheard a curious conversation between an elvhen woman and a templar. Something about her lost son, the Circle, and apostate, which was enough to make his mind snap into urgent concern. Anders had ducked behind the giant oak to shield himself from the templar’s eyesight, which was also how he bumped into Merrill: a fidgety Dalish elf, eyes wide and ears perked as the templar gave a curt nod to the mother and eventually disappeared behind the stairs to Lowtown.

Curiosity won over both human and elf, and after a hushed exchange with the mother, they found themselves entangled in a slavery mess that her son Feynriel - an apostate it turned out - had weaved himself in. It was a troubling and confusing affair all over, trailing after the boy: his elvhen companion turned out to be _another_ apostate; one of their (frankly questionable) leads turned out to be a former templar, whose contacts to help mages escape Kirkwall turned out to be _bloody_ slavers, of course. They went through another merry chase at the docks in the middle of the night, and with the slavers killed and templars distracted, the boy was finally sent to Merrill’s old clan, safe at last.

A year has passed since. Though Anders often wondered about Feynriel, they both hadn’t been able to check up on him after that, what with Merrill’s troubled relationship with her Keeper and the fact that Anders was, in all good intent and purpose, a human, and thus not exactly welcomed in the Dalish clan.

Couldn’t be helped, that. Even Merrill and he hadn’t gone anywhere beyond occasionally helping each other out, as apostates were bound to do to survive in this city. They knew each other’s name and could count on one to keep the other safe, but any other matter remained entirely their own.

“Can you get home from here by yourself?” Anders stopped his musing as Merrill began to fidget and stand up.

“Yes! I remember the turns now… I think. If anything happens, I can always look for the lantern and go back here, yes?”

“Of course, Merrill. You can come to me if you need anything.”

“Bye, Anders! Be safe!”

As the elf walked out of the door, elfroot potions safely tucked in a bundle, Anders couldn’t help but feel some brightness had left with her. Merrill’s chatters were often long and distracted, but they were lively and endearing in their own way. While Anders sometimes worried that her naivete could risk exposure to the templars when he wasn’t around, he genuinely enjoyed the elf’s boundless energy and open friendliness.

It was another slow day in the clinic. Darktown’s perpetual darkness made it hard to tell the time, and with Merrill leaving and no patient to tend to, Anders turned to his desk, pulling out his manifesto. The chair creaked as he slumped onto it, but he paid it no mind, already shuffling through the pages to pick up his thoughts from last time. Justice surged near the surface, eager to grab the pen and make their opinions known to the world.

Starting their quest for the freedom of mages here in Kirkwall was not something Anders first anticipated, yet after losing Karl, he realized that they wouldn’t have it any other way. Anders was needed here in the clinic, as Lirene and his patients often liked to remind him, and rumors from inside and outside the Gallows only solidified his suspicions. The slave revolt during the Imperial reign did nothing to the place: it was still a festering prison, housing frightened mages and Tranquils instead of slaves while turning the rest into desperate fugitives whose last resort was often blood magic.

Further inquiries led him to the Mage Underground that Karl was once a part of, his death leaving a vacant position that Anders was nothing but eager to fill in. Justice reveled in the chance to take actions, spurring Anders ahead and away from his grief, and from there onward, he busied himself with healing works in the clinic during the day while leading mages through the smuggler tunnels to escape Kirkwall during the night. Despite their constant progress, the work was slow going: his new contacts in the Underground provided him with many insights on the inner working of the Gallows, but to the Templars’ scrutinizing eyes, he might as well have become an even bigger target. When the Order finally pieced everything together, that the Mage Underground’s newest addition was also the elusive healer in Darktown, no place in Kirkwall would be safe for him. Until then, however, Anders persisted.

Between the high tensions, his increasing responsibilities, and the manifesto that he was trying to scrape together whenever possible, he found little time for himself. When he did, Anders – to his own surprise – sought out the lonely spirit in the Amell mansion and kept her company.

Hawke’s friendship was also one of the things Anders didn’t expect to come to value. They laughed at each other’s jokes, read her dwarven friend’s trashy fictions, and traded gossip; he even trusted the spirit enough to let her look through his manifesto while making snooping comments about the Mage Underground. Anders found himself drawn into Hawke’s quick wit and casual acceptance, even more so when the cause weighed on him for days long with little sleep and far too many worries. 

They argued a lot, too: Hawke often reacted flippantly to the city’s many problems, which occasionally drove Justice mad. While Anders assumed being alive and stuck in one place for too long was bound to make one ignorant and jaded, Hawke’s swift dismissal and ambiguous plays of words reminded him at times of the ever-present barrier between them. Justice seemed to have accepted the existence of the fellow spirit, going so far as to look past Hawke’s obliviousness of her own nature, but decades of Circle training deterred Anders from getting too attached. Hawke’s several attempts to get close – jokingly or not – were often met with bristle responses. The spirit was no better, as her humorous deflections oftentimes reminded Anders of his old self.

He embraced the fragile comfort, nevertheless.

“Couldn’t be helped, that.” Anders murmured to himself, shaking his head. There might be enough time to finish at least one page before meeting with Mistress Selby tonight. Anders dipped his pen in the narrow inkpot and started working. 

——————————

Mistress Selby had an exhausted look on her face when she informed him of the Starkhaven mages, recently captured at the Storm Coast. It was a big mess, or so he’d heard: blood magic, demon possession, mages and templars ending up in pieces before the rest of the runaway mages were rounded up and squared in the Gallows. 

“It was hard to risk any of us more than I already did,” she took a small sip of brandy, no doubt saved for stressful situations like this one. Her well-pressed dress looked off in the dirty warehouse, her carefully coiffed hair now slightly rumbled, and the moonlight escaping through the warehouse’s high windows only served to emphasize the bags under her eyes, usually masked behind makeup and fine powder. “I sent two ahead, haven’t heard from them since. Guess how well it turned out. And, oh, look, blood mages and demons!  _ That _ ’s what I lost our people for.” She let out a hollow laugh.

“They wouldn’t have gone there if the Templars hadn’t hunted them like games in the first place.” Anders quickly countered. 

Mistress Selby drowned the last of her alcohol in one last gulp, nodding stiffly. It was times like these that Anders was both thankful and annoyed at Justice’s vehement disdain for drinking. With nothing to keep his hands occupied, he fidgeted with his sleeves instead. The thread was starting to come loose. He might need to do some stitching soon.

“Anders, you might want to lay low for a while,” she continued. “The Templars might be questioning those mages, and if they let anything slip, I don’t want any of you to be caught in the action, got it?” She slowly got up, one hand reaching behind to support her back, the other picking up her coat from the crate nearby. “Maker, I feel ten years older. Well, I will sort this mess out somehow, see if our contacts in the Gallows can get their hands on any news. Now I will go home and rest, lest I die before seeing my efforts bear any fruit.”

Anders nodded reluctantly. “You’re doing good work, Mistress. Please come to the clinic any time, I might have a salve for your back.”

“Don’t do anything dangerous until I give you further notice. Young men like you have such a penchant for recklessness.” The elderly woman gave him a tired smile before pulling the hood over her head and trod out of the warehouse.

Anders leaned his head against the wall, a shaky breath escaping his lips.

Well, that went as well as he expected.

——————————

Despite his discontent after the incident with the Starkhaven mages, Anders had temporarily ceased his activities within the Gallows, partly out of respect for Mistress Selby and partly because no one had reached out to him since then.  _ Understandable, _ he thought,  _ but also maddening _ . The stalemate still upset Justice, who took the whole situation as a cause to act  _ more _ , not less, which in turn put Anders in a perpetual state of irritation. Spiritual influence or not, waiting and slacking off was still counterproductive, thus came many nights spent at Hawke’s mansion, with Anders turning his indignation and restless thoughts into words while the spirit read through the many drafts of his manifesto.

“What I’m telling you is, the problem with blood magic in Kirkwall is not because mages are let loose, but because we’re hunted so thoroughly that only a few desperate options remain.” 

Hawke looked at him with her usual lazy smile, gesturing for the pen to scribble on his manifesto’s margins with scraggly letters. “Perhaps a different phrasing yes? Say, something along the line of, ‘It is unjust that the oppression of mages in Kirkwall had become so dire, that blood magic has prevailed as the only means of survival for those who desire the same rights as any man.’ Fits Justice’s wordy manner of venting too.” She winked - if the ghostly disappearance of one eyehole can be described as winking. 

“How come you can be both helpful and annoying in the same breath?” Anders frowned.

“Maybe I like to tease Justice,” Hawke responded without looking up from her reading. She squinted, probably reaching a “particularly dense and Justice-y part” as she likes to put it, and let out a long sigh. The gush of cold air made the small candle in front of them sizzle and die, and Hawke laughed loudly as Anders shot her his most unimpressed look before putting back the light. 

“I wonder if you let your spirit write what he wants when you sleep. He has a  _ lot _ of thoughts.”

“Come on, Hawke,” Anders prompted, “two more pages to go.”

They fell into silence once more, the spirit making thoughtful faces at his draft, laid out page to page on the library’s long table. Anders sat and watched, fingers drumming on his laps in anticipation.

“I think I should thank Mistress Selby,” Hakwe spoke again, momentarily distracted from the reading. “She kept you from running head-straight into danger, and I’ve got more chances to host my favorite guest.”

“You mean your  _ only  _ guest.”

“Hey, both of them are true.” She shot him a wink and a grin before waving at the pen to move again. Anders took a peek at her writing, raising his eyebrow as the pen made a crude sketch of a mabari head right under the notes. He could make out a few keywords on the side, otherwise:  _ Harrowing bad, limited magical studies, Knight-Commander has no taste in fashion _ , and the likes. 

It was in times like these that he was thankful for Hawke. Having another person with whom he can bounce ideas back and forth was most agreeable in place of whatever he and Justice were doing when they were alone, even if said person was yet another spirit who seemed to take the time for her jokes in every situation possible. Judging one’s own words was never an easy task, especially when he struggled with convincing himself, their vision that was so clear mere seconds ago suddenly turned uncertain and muddled.

_ Or maybe my brilliant insights were just Justice venting very loud in my head.  _ Anders grunted at the thought, and Hawke looked at him curiously, her doodle of a whole mabari momentarily abandoned. 

“Just thinking,” Anders shrugged, fishing out a loaf of bread from the basket sitting next to him. He took a bite; the bread was hard but blessedly warm, a surprise but not unwelcome gift from a woman whose baby he helped deliver. He took what small comfort he could from the reminder that he was still doing some good, at least. If people would not listen to a mage, they might still listen to someone who helped and healed, who was there for them while the Chantry wouldn’t lift a finger.

And there was also Hawke. Maker forbid that having a  _ spirit _ hearing his plight would bring him joy and reassurance, but Anders was not in a place to cherry-pick what makes him happy. 

If Hawke only cared for him out of her own loneliness, maybe that made two of them.

“Say, Anders,” Hawke suddenly spoke, and Anders was pulled back from his musing.

“Yes, Hawke?”

“You are passionate about your cause. The freedom for mages, the Circles dissolved, Templars disbanding, the Chantry admitting to a thousand years of injustice. It’s a long way to go.”

_ Here we go again _ . Anders pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Your point being?”

“Turning the ears of Kirkwall is not an easy feat.” Hawke made a gesture of tapping on his manifesto. “It’s been three years, Anders. Not sure what your Mistress Selby tells you every day, but I doubt having mages disappear from the Gallows every month is making the lives of those in the Gallows any easier.”

“This again, Hawke? You’re telling me to sit still while those who can be saved endure that… that torture, while hoping that, what, by doing nothing it  _ probably _ won’t get worse?” It hit awfully close to what Anders was doing right now. The thought did nothing to control his temper.

Hawke sighed. “What I’m saying is, you’re fighting millennia of prejudice by yourselves. You helped a group of mages escape the Gallows, then the Templars tighten their grip, and those still trapped inside will suffer for it. Can you keep sneaking them out to the last mage?”

“It’s not about how much I can achieve. It  _ is  _ the right thing to do. If everyone looks at the Chantry and thinks,  _ I can never stand against them,  _ then nothing will get done! We would lose the fight even before we started it.”

“Maybe it’s a war you can’t win, or one you’re not meant to fight in at all.”

“And you know how to fight the fight? That’s something for the Gallows mages to decide, not you, Hawke.”

“... Who else is reading your manifesto, Anders?”

Anders felt his blood run cold, hot anger rising in his chest.

“ _ Hawke. Don’t go there.” _ He could see blue veins cracking on his white knuckles, fists pinned on the old wooden table. 

The spirit pinned him with a hard look. Her fingers tapped soundlessly on the table once, twice, then she said in a calm voice.

“I’m not saying this just to piss you off. You and Justice, both of you will burn yourself up this way, and where will it lead you? A smear on the list of countless attempts to oppose the Chantry in vain? I—” Hawke stopped short in her speech. She opened her mouth - as if wanting to finish whatever she started - then stopped again, frowning, her eyes averting his for a brief moment before coming back to confront him in determination.

Anders, on the other hand, couldn’t bother to care at that point. He pushed his chair back and stood up, the sudden movement creating a loud screech on the worn carpet floor. The world suddenly became blank, and Justice seethed in his place. 

“Of course. You would rather live on in content denial and let injustice grow just because it’s  _ inconvenient _ . I won’t have it! I will kill every last templar, free every last mage and burn every Circle to the ground if that is the last thing I have to do. You are Complacency after all, Hawke. I can’t fault you for not caring, for it is  _ your very nature. _ ”

When Anders came back to himself, the library was once again drenched in pitch-black. Hawke was nowhere to be seen. The veilfire on the candlestick had vanished as if it had never been there.

Righteous fury still burning in his head, Anders conjured a light wisp, gathered his manifesto, and let himself out of the all-too-quiet mansion.

  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Major spoilers for many Act 2 quests (with modifications), lots of mentions of character death.
> 
> Again, a big Thank You to Ms. Beta Reader who had to deal with my mess of a draft and the frequent lack of confidence; this chapter was a tough one to write.

Darktown was drenched in oppressive heat and the occasional floods this time of summer.

Anders prepared for it as much as he could. He had all his medical supplies stocked on higher shelves, the cots reinforced and his patients given proper instructions on treating infections and heat strokes. Yet when the air thickened with salty mist, the stench of stale sweat and waste residue, when water rose above his ankles and sometimes threatened to reach his knees, the stream of ailing Darktown residents still poured into his clinic day in and out. 

Anders never bore much love for the Chantry, yet at times like this, more than ever, he despised the golden statues from Imperial times still decorating its doorsteps, while the people down here - good, honest people - still had to live off scraps and battle injuries and ailments of all kinds. He relied on this spite and Justice’s sheer stubbornness to carry himself above normal limits, keeping the lanterns lit until long after the last ray of sunlight had fled Darktown.

Amidst the bruised workers, feverish children and various infected individuals, today he received a peculiar case: a battered elf hefted up onto his cots by some residents who just came back from scavenging near the Storm Coast. An injured elf was nothing new in the clinic, but this one had lyrium etched into his skin in swirling lines, a tad reminiscent of the Dalish tattoos he saw on Velanna’s and Merrill’s faces. A Dalish? So far away from his clan? He posed the questions to those who brought him in, only to receive a shrug; they didn’t even know his name. So Anders himself shrugged in response and patched the elf up regardless, letting him sleep through the night as he put off the lantern and started going through correspondences from within the Gallows. 

Things have quieted down at last, but Selby feared that this was merely a calm before the storm: after all, Karl being made Tranquil was only one of the first steps to root out the Mage Underground. He knew the one who gave that order — a Ser Alrik reputed for his ruthlessness and utter sadism, but getting this information was as far as he could go, as Knight-Commander Meredith had put on new restrictions in the name of “accommodating” the Starkhaven mages. From there onwards, disturbing rumors regarding these changes spread across their shaky organization, slow and viscous like oil about to catch fire.

The spiraling thought brought him back to his last talk with Hawke, their arguments still leaving a bitter taste in his mouth whenever it was recalled. He had avoided seeing and thinking about the spirit since, arguing that it was for the best: there was no time to dally about and wallow in distracting emotions, not when there was still work to be done.

His manifesto, however, remained untouched.

It was not his resentment toward Hawke that held his hands, Anders reasoned. She was not the first nor the only one who had questioned his cause. It was rather the fact that, beyond all the anger and feeling of betrayal, a part of himself feared that the spirit was right. It was near impossible to sneak a mage out without another two getting punished or worse; and at times he couldn’t help but feel like they were all just trying to do as much work as possible before the noose tightened around their neck. More mages to the brand, freedom nowhere in sight.

 _Not enough, not enough_ , the voice in his head would rage, and Anders would oftentimes wonder if all this bubbled up anger came from Justice or his own frustration. The Wardens couldn’t protect him. Outside Tevinter, mages had no allies. There was no way but forward; the only ones to fight for their sake were themselves. 

And yet, he dreaded the blood and ash that would pave their way.

——————————

The new patient - Fenris, it turned out - was not very fond of mages and magic, even the healing kind. They ended up having an awkward conversation first thing in the morning, Anders trying to calm a very agitated and somewhat hostile elf who had no idea how he ended up on a cot. Anders worried at first that this one would rat him out to the Templars, but Fenris seemed to be sincerely grateful for the help, if not for the method used. He gritted at Anders’s attempt to ask after the lyrium lines and refused all offers of further examination, however.

But again, if the story about his former master was right, that this was a slave running from Tevinter, then Anders could give him a slight benefit of the doubt.

“I will be in the abandoned mansion in Hightown’s far East if you have need of me,” Fenris ended his inquiry with a curt offer, already letting himself out.

“I wasn’t aware there was more than one abandoned mansion.” Anders mused.

Fenris raised an eyebrow at him, managing to deliver a judgmental look even while being a head shorter. Anders blinked, suddenly a tad embarrassed. 

“I knew of one such place in Hightown, but I doubt it was the same as yours,” he elaborated.

Fenris thankfully didn’t ask for further details. He turned, hefting the long sword on his back.

“Until we meet again, mage,” was all he said.

 _‘Mage’_. What an endearment. Anders decided to avoid seeking him out if he could help it.

——————————

Strangely enough, Fenris started to become a bit of a regular presence. Sometimes he would drag himself to the clinic with a broken arm or leg - or a hole in his torso, really, depending on who or what he’d been fighting that day. From what Anders was able to wrangle out of the elf, he had an interesting dynamic going on with the Kirkwall slavers: most of the time he hunted them down, destroying their business and ideally their body parts. Occasionally he was the hunted, trailed by whatever minions his former master was hiring. Fenris’s blood had always spilled less. It was the slavers’ fatal weakness, he claimed, that his former master wanted him to be reclaimed alive.

Apparently this act of vigilante social work had earned the elf some friendship among the City Guard, as dealing with Tevinter mages and magisters was somewhat a sensitive mess that the officials weren’t always willing to partake in. So they let the elf squat in a Hightown mansion filled with imported alcohol instead of sending him to the Alienage, welcomed his existence and even shot a job or two his way every moon.

Not that Anders would ever begrudge someone his rewards for exacting justice upon such horrendous crimes. He even joined Fenris at times. But killing slavers was - as far as the common populace was concerned - a morally straightforward path, and Anders had caught himself once or twice wondering whether a day exists when stopping abusive templars would earn him the same kind of respect.

He mentioned this parallel to Fenris once, only to have the elf scowl and snap back.

“That _parallel_ is idiotic. You can’t possibly compare the Templars to those who would treat people like cattle, trading them for profits then bleed them to fuel blood magic spells.”

“Then maybe you don’t really know Templars,” the mage muttered darkly. 

“They’re a _necessity_ to maintain order. Removing them will only create another Imperium.”

“And what is slavery if not the backbone of Tevinter economy? What would removing them lead to? I don’t see you complaining about it.”

Fenris’s brows furrowed even further. He pinned him with a dark look, and Anders held it just as stubbornly.

“Slaves cannot burst into demons if they are set free. Nothing would guarantee that mages will never fall to temptation. Tevinter is your only example of mages being given free rein and they decided to stoop as low as possible.”

“That’s nothing but pure speculation! You can’t condemn us all based on that!”

“Nevertheless. For one mage like you, there are countless others who’d turned into abominations or tried to mutilate me with blood magic or _worse_.”

Considering the irony of that praise, Anders wasn’t sure how to respond. Conversational mood completely evaporated, he elected to ignore Fenris, the latter tying up the last buckle of his armor with frustrated impatience.

“I won’t question whatever dubious activities you’re up to,” Fenris said, “as long as you would be so kind not to assume to know about _my_ sufferings. If you’re so fixated on freeing all mages without caring about who would be hurt, then on your head be the consequences.” 

It took tremendous effort for him to not glow blue right that instance.

——————————

After their spat, Anders decided that Fenris was a real prick and that staying away from the elf would be best to preserve both their sanity. 

Ironically, a situation arose a mere month later; words were whispered among the Gallows contacts of a certain Ser Alrik and his Tranquil Solution with various degrees of apprehension and alarm.

It was then that Anders decided that this templar could no longer be allowed to go on as he was; thus with considerable conviction and as least pride as possible, he sought out the help of Fenris and Merrill.

Maybe it was a terrible plan, all in all. While Merrill was all willing to come along, he and Fenris almost got into a shouting match, arguments about Mages and Templars short of being hurled at each other in vicious abandon. Anders was ready to storm out of the mansion until the elf decided that yes, a favor given was still a favor owed, which made this his responsibility to help out once and for all. As much both he and Justice bristled at the reasoning, Anders needed all the help he could get, so they settled into an uneasy truce and headed out toward the tunnel in search of their target and his cronies.

Things stumbled down the hill just as quickly as it escalated.

“Get away from me, Demon!” The mage girl cried and crawled backward, eyes darting fearfully between Ser Alrik’s severed head and Justice’s glowing eyes.

What Demon, what Demon, what Demon? He was _Justice_ . Had she finally gone blind? He _protected_ her from the Templars. What he had done for her, what they had done for her! Only those lost to the Chantry’s clutches would consider them a _bane._

“I am NO Demon! Are you one of them, that you would call me such?!” He roared and towered himself over the girl, his voice deafening to his own ears. From the corners of his eyes, Justice could see the way Fenris stiffened, broad sword pointed out toward him and ready to leap to action. Merrill squeezed herself between them and shouted out in haste.

“No, Anders! What are you doing?!”

“She’s _theirs_. I can feel their hold on her.” Justice growled. He held out one hand toward Fenris, ready to throw a barrier; the other hand thrust his staff toward Merrill, threatening to shove her out of the way. Merrill persisted, her arms spread out to shield the girl from his view.

“She's no enemies! She was the reason you were fighting just now, remember? Don’t turn on us now!”

Lies and slander, all of them! They were no better than the Templars, allowing this injustice to root and grow while turning on _him_ as if he was their enemy. Anders was too soft, he was _wrong_ , there was no peaceful way to go about this: Alrik paid for his wrongdoings with his death, and all their kind would face the same fate soon. Justice would make sure of that. He would have the head of every last templar for these abuses. Then the people would see it, they would know: he was not a Demon, he was on their side, helping them, he was--

“Fenris, don’t! Anders!!” Merrill’s cry snapped Justice out of his tangent just as the same time Fenris’s fist phased through his chest, then the world went out in a blinding white. 

For a moment, he heard it: a song, one he heard years ago back at Vigil’s Keep, when he was still wearing the Warden Commander’s lyrium-infused ring like the most precious gift on Kristoff’s rotten finger. This one retained none of the sweet calming hums he remembered; it was loud, agonizingly so, the beats drummed in his head like an Archdemon’s cry. Justice tore at his hair - or at least tried to - scraping desperately at the edge of his consciousness. _Anything, anything to stop this._

When Anders could finally open his eyes, he saw Fenris crouching a good distance away from him, fist cradled close to his chest, brows furrowed, eyes squeezed shut in pain. His lyrium lines were still glowing, but they seemed to be flickering every once in a while; the sight reminded him painfully of Hawke.

Merrill was, once again, standing between them, a glyph on each hand ready to be cast. Her expression softened as she caught his eyes, but she held her posture.

“Anders, Fenris, you two still with me?” Merrill asked. Anders realized that she was panting heavily now. 

He looked around, taking in the sight of the templars’ corpses. The mage girl was nowhere to be seen. His memories rushed back like a hazy, fevered dream.

 _Maker, no._

Fenris staggered on his feet; then all signs of physical pain seemed to vanish from him, replaced with an expression of barely-contained fury. 

“You’re an abomination.” Fenris gritted out, his voice low.

Instead of the sharp instinct to snap back whenever someone referred to Justice as a demon, Anders’s whole body shook. His vision blurred; palms pressed forcefully against his temple. He could still make out Merrill’s shape as she approached him, slowly and carefully as if he was a spooked animal. Her voice was hushed.

“Please, Fenris, not now.”

“It _is_ now. The only time I agreed to help a mage out of my own volition, you had to reveal yourself a Maker-forsaken _abomination._ You succumbed to the offer of power like any other mages that I had to suffer my whole life.” Fenris’s words were drenched with hurt and rage. Anders saw his fists clenched and released, then clenched again as he picked up his sword and clasped it to his back. 

“I don’t owe you anything anymore,” he finally said. “Pray that we never meet again.”

With that, Fenris strode out of the cave, leaving Merrill and Anders alone between the pile of corpses. They remained in dead silence for a long moment; then Merrill combed one slender hand through his hair and gave his shoulder a light tug.

“Come on, let us get out of here.”

——————————

“The mage - Ella - she was safe now. I sent her to Mistress Selby’s.” 

Anders halted his rummaging as he heard her voice. His meager belongings were laid scattered about on an empty cot, the two piles of Keep and Trash merged together into an incomprehensible lump. He sighed, throwing the cat bell he was holding on top of the mess before turning to face the elvhen mage.

“Thank you, Merrill.” Anders managed a smile. “Although I’m not sure if I can help you out today.” The clinic had been cleared for a few days now, lantern unlit. He wasn’t even sure how she let herself in. Maybe he forgot to lock the door at some point.

“Oh, no, I’m not looking for anything! Well, aside from checking up on you, that is. How are you feeling— Are you packing?”

A good question, indeed.

“Maybe I should be,” he said. “I almost killed an innocent girl. If it was not for you and— and Fenris, I would have done that for sure.”

“But she isn’t dead, is she?” Merrill came to sit down beside him. “She was still shaking a bit when I last talked to her, the poor girl, but there was no wound. She should be on her way out of Kirkwall as we speak.”

Anders averted her gaze. He didn’t deserve comfort. “I don’t know if I can go on like this. Me and Justice, we were _wrong,_ this feels wrong. What I did was not justice. How can I fight for the freedom of mages if I’m the example of the worst that freedom can bring?”

“Are you talking about your spirit?” Anders flinched by instinct at Merrill’s question. The incredulity of it all startled him into a bitter laugh. Merrill shifted uneasily beside him.

“That is rather out in the open, isn’t it.” Anders leaned his head on the edge of his cot. “He is a spirit of Justice, though I don’t know if I can still consider him so. Maybe I turned him into a creature of Vengeance long ago, and everything I’ve believed in was just my delusions. Maybe our whole operation was one. Ser Alrik just turned out to be an asshole, regardless.” A stab of desperate anger struck his mind then, but he brushed it away. The spirit could no longer complain about this. 

“It was not,” Merrill retorted firmly. She pulled out a parchment from her satchel and handed it to him. “Here, the Tranquil Solution. It was Alrik’s idea only, but it still exists.”

“This…” Anders held the piece of parchment with slightly trembling hands, devouring the words as if they might disappear. “Meredith rejected the idea. _The Grand Cleric_ rejected the idea. Maybe… maybe there’s still a chance to talk to the Gland Cleric about this, I can still…” he stammered. “Did you find this on Alrik?”

“Actually… it was Fenris who found it. He came to the Alienage and shove it in my hands before storming off again.” 

Anders still remembered Fenris’s scathing words, clear as day. For once, he didn’t know how to counter them. 

Not when both he and Merrill had their own unsavory secrets. Better get it out for both of them now.

“Merrill,” he started. “Back then during the fight, I saw you bleed yourself.”

“Ah, that.”

“That, indeed. It was… It was blood magic right?”

“I knew you would ask about it.” Merrill hugged her knees close to her chest. “I know you don’t like blood magic, so I didn’t tell you before. For that I am sorry. But I won’t seek out your approval on this.”

“You saw how I acted back there, the way I’ve become—”

“You were very distressed. I won’t hold it against you.”

“This is not about holding one against the other or not. It’s not that I’m not thankful for your help, Merrill. You have done more for me than most people here. But you have to _see._ This, what I’m going through, it might very well be your future!”

“Anders, you only need to know this: I never use anyone’s blood but my own, and I deal with the spirits with the best caution and training a Keeper’s First can have.” Merrill pushed herself up from the ground. Her large green eyes were soulful and sincere when she looked at him, but the trace of steel and determined purpose was clear behind it. “You meant well and I appreciate it, I really do, but my choice remains my own. I’m not sure what to do with myself if I don’t hold on to that belief.” Her last words came out as a whisper. She gave him a small smile, her hand reaching out as if to give him a pat on the back. She refrained from it, in the end.

A bitter realization hit him then: for all his claims of good intentions and worry over her safety, he had never really known Merrill. She was just a friendly but naive apostate who oftentimes brought him herbs and bandages and healing potions, who would help a fellow mage when needed and gladly accept his aid in return. He knew nothing of her fears and motivations, nothing of what life had shaped her the way she was nor the hardship that had put the edge in her kind eyes. Perhaps they would never have that kind of conversation.

As Merrill waved him goodbye and let herself out of the clinic, he faintly recalled a dimly lit mansion, veilfire flickering then snapping shut with a sudden gust of wind.

Had he always been alone?

——————————

He couldn’t do this.

Whatever conviction he’d gained after seeing Alrik’s Tranquil Solution, it quickly vanished into a constant panic. His hands trembled whenever he tried to use magic on a patient, and for a moment he would be transported back into the smuggler’s cave, looking at Ella’s fearful face. Anders realized that he was running around in circles, but he could guess that Justice was shaken, too: very rarely had he been reminded of their unfinished business, of the untouched letters sitting on his desk, no doubt from the Mage Underground with offers of new missions.

For the first time since Anders had woken amidst a clearing full of Templars and Wardens corpses, Justice joined him in his wallowing. Ironically, Anders balked at the common misery: if even Justice wasn’t sure about himself, then who else was he to trust? 

_“You and Justice, both of you will burn yourself up this way, and where will it lead you? A smear on the list of countless attempts to oppose the Chantry in vain?”_

He realized with a bitter laugh that this wasn’t even about the Chantry, nor was it about millennia of prejudices against mages. This quest, the cause that Anders and Justice had taken upon themselves, was doomed from the start. Spirit or Demon, their ill-fated joining was never meant to be. Whatever they had strived so hard to achieve would be undone in mere moments, shattered with a slip in control, and it would be both their fault.

With that thought haunting his mind, Anders retreated further into his clinic, staying away from the Underground and the Templars and everyone else.

When the knock came at his door a few days later, he burrowed himself further in the creaky bed, unwilling to answer.

“Anders?” It was Mistress Selby’s voice.

“Anders, Lirene told me that you haven’t left here for weeks now. Did something happen?”

Would she leave if he kept silent?

“...If you don’t open the door, I will hire someone to pick the look.”

Blasted woman. He rolled over and out of the bed, then trudged toward to unlock the door. It groaned open, revealing Selby’s surprised face before she managed to smooth it into a warm smile.

“You look like a ghost”, was her greeting.

Anders snorted. “Would explain why I’m here all the time, wouldn’t it?”

She ignored his glib, instead sauntered toward the nearest cot before settling herself down. “You haven’t been answering my letters.”

Anders hung his head, guilt flooding his mind. “I… haven’t been available.” 

“You have been making me worried sick, that’s what. Lirene assured me you haven’t been taken or killed, but I didn’t even hear so much as a rat’s sniff from you,” the scowl on her face smoothened into tired relief. “Our people aren’t much, Anders, and we keep disappearing. I need to know that my men are safe.”

Suddenly feeling like a child getting scolded, he nodded lamely. “My apology, Mistress.”

“Would you tell me what’s wrong?” Mistress Selby crossed her legs and leaned forward on her elbow, pinning him with a resolute but concerned look. She reminded him faintly of the Warden-Commander even amidst the shabby furniture and tainted walls, but he could still see the heavy pressure taking a toll on her. The wrinkles on her face were more prominent now, so were her eye bags and the way her back hunched just slightly when she sat.

In a way, they were all longing for when the war would end.

“I… don’t know if what we do is enough. We keep fighting and fighting, and nothing seems to be changing. And I…” he chose his words carefully, “I feel like I’m just making things worse.” 

“We’re making changes, Anders. We couldn’t have gone far without your help.”

“Are we? Meredith is taking over this city. Scums like Alrik and his cronies were allowed to live without any consequences. More of his kind still lives, I’m sure. And I keep writing,” he gestured toward his desk, the manifesto still stacked away inside the drawer, “that, and only a _ghost_ would bother to read what I have to say.”

Selby squinted at that. She looked at him quizzically, and Anders hastily corrected, despite Justice’s stab of irritation at the lie.

“Just a figure of speech.”

Thankfully, Selby seemed to buy his excuse. She tucked a strand of sweat-streaked hair behind her ear and nodded solemnly at his outburst, before standing up and beckoned a finger toward him.

“Come with me.”

——————————

He walked with Mistress Selby toward the docks, where a giant warrior statue with a flaming sword stood in the middle of the modest square. The moon was high and clear, washing over the scenery with a silverite shine, unaware and unbothered of the two small humans standing shadowed by the statue’s height. No ship was arriving tonight, which left the docks in a dreamy silence— one that was only occasionally disturbed by the faint sound of metal clashing, echoed from the smithy that seemed to stay forever awake.

He knew what this statue meant for the city. The people of Kirkwall still sometimes mentioned their Champion.

Selby was looking up at the statue now, eyes hard, a disapproving frown spread on her face. 

“Do you know the tale of the Champion of Kirkwall?” She asked.

Anders raised his eyebrows at the sudden question. “I know she defended the city during the Qunari invasion,” he answered nonetheless.

“Beyond that?”

“There are many tales, that she was one with power and influence but… I’m afraid that’s what most people talked about these days.”

“The people forgot much.” Mistress Selby snorted, bitterness coloring her voice. “Especially if the truth is hard to swallow.”

“You mean…” He prompted.

“She was a mage, you know.”

What? Anders looked at the statue, dumbfounded. What? 

The giant warrior seemed to look back at them mockingly. 

“That’s… impossible.” He breathed. “Kirkwallers loved her. She was a symbol of order and power, their _Champion_. She couldn’t have been...”

“But that’s what she was. Funny that the people could easily choose what aspects of a person to remember, then forget the rest.” She stepped away from the statue now. Her eyes only seemed to harden. “She saved my Father. She saved every noble in that room by killing the Arishok, and she gave her life for it. You know what the funny story is? I and my sister grew up with her tale, but my Father seemed to be the only one who remembered that it was a mage who saved us, not the Templars, not anyone else. We worshipped that woman.”

Anders remembered Selby's mention of her sister when he asked why a non-mage would be willing to lead a group of apostates against the clutches of the Chantry. He knew how this story ended. Yet this was the first time he had been privy to the details, and it unraveled before him with dawning horror. 

“When the Templars found out that my sister was a mage and the poor girl ran away,” she continued, “they made her Tranquil and called it mercy. My dear Ava, my baby sister, she was just scared. She never did anything wrong. Yet they branded the sunburst on her forehead, making her parrot after their words as if magic was the greatest sin in the eyes of the Maker. I couldn’t bear it.”

Mistress Selby turned away from the statue now. Its offending posture cast a long shadow over their head, and Anders wondered if every mage in history would be treated the same way. He recalled the Warden-Commander and the way they seemed to glow with each spell, how their magic reached deep into the darkspawn’s defenses before tearing them apart. Would they be remembered with a sword and shield when all this was over?

“Do you see where I’m getting at?” She asked. “The Champion was a mage, and Kirkwall decided to erase it. She came from a family of mages, so her name was taken from her too.”

A realization dawned on him.

Mistress Selby drew a long breath and turned to face Anders. He couldn’t see much from the shadow, but there was no mistaking her straight posture and the way she dug her fingers into the fabric of her dress, clutching them in her fist.

“The city forgot much, Anders, but I won’t. An apostate saved Kirkwall. Maybe I can’t carry this truth if it invites the Templars to my doorstep, but I damn well won’t let any other mage suffer this fate. Not as long as I draw breath. We _are_ making a difference.”

——————————

Dawn was breaking when Anders escorted Mistress Selby back to her manor, their feet worn from walking but their mind anchored from their long talk. The elder woman gave him a tight hug, warned of the next Templar patrol and made him promise to write before closing the door, leaving Anders to wander the Hightown street by himself.

But he was not wandering, not exactly. His feet carried him to the front of the Amell mansion, their insignia long since worn out and faded, the only traces of their former glory a mere couple of long red stripes. He hovered there for a while, unsure of whether or not he should knock on the door. He had never visited Hawke from the front door, and never during the day; the spirit would always anticipate his arrival and held the cellar door open. This one remained shut, however, blackened handle covered by overgrown ivy.

But where would he be if he ran away from this? A resonating buzz washed through his mind then, and Anders realized it for Justice’s own peculiar way of encouraging him.

“Both of you are the same, always like grating at my nerves,” he chuckled fondly, raising his hand toward the door. He felt a slight vibration on his fingers upon touching the old wood— then a slow, heavy groan as the door struggled to open itself. Ivy strands coiled and shifted, and a dimly lit foyer revealed itself.

Anders stepped in.

Any lingering doubt about Hawke’s connection with the mansion quickly dissipated after his first step. The first time he’d entered this place, Anders only recognized parts of the Fade bleeding through a thinly stretched Veil. He felt it clear as day now: the entire manor breathed and sang with the spirit’s energy, veilfire flickering in pulsing rhythm, air flowing from room to room like dusty bloodstreams. Inside this mansion, she was everywhere and nowhere at once. 

He stood in front of the large portrait. The blue in her eyes was almost swallowed by layers of cobwebs and grimes, but it glimmered and spread in faint tendrils, reaching outward then coiling again. 

Anders looked at her half-smile and tried to imagine it on the statue at the docks. He couldn’t.

“You were the Champion of Kirkwall,” he said.

The face on the portrait glowed and morphed. The spirit emerged to look at him.

“Where did you get that name?” Hawke asked.

“Mistress Selby told me a story. So I made a few deliberate assumptions on my own.” 

Hawke’s eyes closed. She raised both her hands and placed them against the canvas, pushing herself away from it.

“I remember the Knight Commander told me something equally ridiculous before I passed out at the Viscount’s Keep. Turns out I didn’t really lose my hearings.”

“They built you a ridiculous statue at the docks’ square! You were an apostate, you fought for this city as one, and the statue looked nothing like you!”

The spirit leaned over the frail railing, looking wistfully down at the foyer.

“A statue? Color me astounded.” She let out a dry chuckle. “As flattering as this all is, why are you here, Anders? You didn’t disappear for three months before showing up at my front door to inform me of my past achievements.”

“I recall you were the one who snuffed out on me first,” he countered, a tad pettily.

Hawke gave a stiff nod at that. “That’s fair.” 

Anders raked a hand through his hair and came to a standstill beside her.

“I guess… I want to know why you tried to stop me then. You were an apostate with wealth and influence, Hawke. You fought harder than anyone to get there. You readily gave your life for those who wouldn’t even remember you correctly. It was ridiculously heroic. For you to just tell me to give up, it just… doesn’t fit the tales. Maybe something happened and you ended up here, but my guess can only take me so far.”

“Too complacent?” Hawke mused, and Anders couldn’t help but flinch. She gave him a smile, then pushed herself over the railing, drifting downward until her ghostly form brushed the foyer floor. Anders followed her down with careful steps. 

For a moment, the only sound in the mansion was a rhythmic _‘tap, tap’_ of his boots on the marble stairs. Red-gold light leaked from the tattered curtains, edging at the space that was once lit with green veilfire. Hawke’s form seemed to fade further into the clashing scenery.

With a wave of her hand, four figures took shape alongside her in the foyer. A couple of young man and woman was playing with a large mabari near the fireplace, the hound panting and rolling on the ground while wagging its ridiculously short tail. Next to them was an older woman in fine dress, her hand nursing a goblet of wine, her posture relaxed on the broken armchair. Hawke was facing the last figure: a tall, bearded man standing near the front door, his back leaning casually on the doorpost, his attentive eyes fixed on her. 

It was the only visible feature on his face, however. The other three were also missing bits and pieces, places where facial parts should have been being replaced with smooth skin— sometimes, there would be a quick flash of a nose, an eye, a pair of lips, then skin again.

“I used to not be able to face them in my dreams. Too painful, I thought, the idiot. Now I can barely remember how they looked like.” Hawke took a step toward the tall man. 

“My father, Malcolm,” she whispered. “When we were still living in Ferelden, he was sick, you see, so I looked up as many healing spells as I could, tearing open whatever tome I could get my hands on. He wasted away regardless. My first failure.” 

Hawke moved next to the young woman at the fireplace, one hand stroking her head fondly. 

“The templars caught up with us at some point, so we ran again. Nothing new, really, but it was the first time without Father. We didn’t even have time to pack, and for a long time we wandered around with barely any coins and no idea where to go. The Amells from our mother’s side had this manor here, so she said, ‘We can go to Kirkwall.’”

“... An apostate family wouldn’t do well in a city-state full of Templars.”

“We knew. But mother was getting older, and we were all tired of packing up and running at a moment’s notice. This mansion was the closest place to home she had at that point. So we fought through bandits and headhunters to board a ship… Our sweet Bethany, she didn’t make it. My second failure.”

The girl, Bethany, didn’t look up. She kept on rubbing the mabari’s belly, laughing soundlessly at, Anders’s guess, her other sibling sitting next to her. Hawke glanced at him briefly then, and continued, her fingers never stopped stroking Bethany’s hair.

“I don’t think Carver ever recovered from Beth’s death. For all his resentment of being in my shadow, those two were like halves of a whole. We argued even more when there were just us. Maker, I hated being stuck with the git in close quarters though: first the ship, then our uncle’s hovel in Lowtown since the bastard gambled the family’s mansion away. So we arrived in Kirkwall, broke, near homeless, and with Templars on our heels anyways.”

“Which was why you went to the Deep Roads.” Anders filled in, his memories of reading Hawke’s dwarven friend’s drafts clicking into pieces.

“Ah yes, Varric’s stories. Unfinished, sadly. I couldn’t carry both his body and his notes back to the surface. Well, at least Carver was down there with him? The fuckers, letting me and Isabela do all the hard work while they joined the merry bands of hurlocks and ogres and whatever the fuck was raining rock on us down there.” Hawke dug the heel of her hands against her eyelids. “Andraste’s flaming hair, I should’ve left him home.”

Since becoming a Grey Warden, Anders had never enjoyed the Deep Roads. Too many of his nightmares involved dark caves, close walls, and the feel of Taint lurking in every corner. He tried to imagine getting through those endless dungeons with half his companions lost: Sigrun, her eyes so full of life going dull from a poisoned dagger; or Nate, strong and dependable, mouth full of blood and chest lodged with arrows. The thoughts gave him shivers. 

He hovered near the cold fireplace as Hawke leaned her back against Carver’s, watching her mother from afar. She kept still for a while before continuing, her voice lighter than a breath. 

“Well, after that, Mother and I at least got back the mansion and some influence. On the bright side, there were fewer people who could hurt us, and Mother could have a fragment of familiarity again. Or so I thought.” She raised her hand as if holding a goblet, and gestured toward his mother. “Things went wrong in a blur. I shared a drink with her in the morning, went on to ran errands for whatever friend in high places would require of me, and came home at night with her head wrapped inside a blanket.” 

As quickly as they appeared, the figures flickered and dissipated, leaving Anders and Hawke alone in a too-quiet foyer. The early morning’s light pushed against the dusty windows and spilled over, filling the space with a palette of grey and dirty brown. Hawke breathed once, twice, then gestured to her bleeding chest.

“So when the Qunari attacked, I thought, ‘ah, might as well’, and threw myself in. It really wasn’t as selfless as it sounded. Isabela and Aveline should’ve been safe though, I hope.” The spirit smiled bitterly. “You knew of loss. You know how it feels, how it eats at you. I… I never really wanted to protect a whole city, just my family, and a big failure is what I ended up becoming. One I haven’t quite managed to accept, apparently, since I still can’t leave this place. But that’s how I met you, didn’t I?”

Anders stayed rooted near the fireplace, suddenly forgetting how to move. The spirit was looking at him now, her usual smile pulled and twitched at the corner.

“… Anders, maybe you don’t realize what it means to me, having someone else come here and share this place. You have become important to me too. I can’t watch another death.”

In a long moment of stunned disbelief, he tried to make sense of Hawke's words. After he left the Wardens, after what happened to Karl, Anders had never truly found his _place_ . Kirkwall was never that. Darktown needed their Healer; Mistress Selby needed a capable hand, and the mages needed someone who would fight for their cause even if the world would turn on them. But no one, _no one,_ had ever needed _Anders_ for years, and yet here he was, facing a forgotten ghost who considered him someone dear, someone too important to lose. 

He dropped to the floor then, back hunched, hands crossed against his forehead. 

The mansion had been held together by Hawke's magic, but it was well on the process of collapsing, bits and pieces falling off and crumbling into itself like a giant decaying corpse. When the roof would finally give way and the walls would break, the body would be reduced to a hollow skeleton of debris and broken memories. Hawke might still be there, Anders thought-- an immaterial being clinging on the last tether of physical connection, unable to stay but unwilling to let go. 

Justice knew of that feeling once - the memories etched deep in their shared memories - promptly after he finally returned Kristoff's body to his wife. In the brief moment when the spirit severed the bond with his former host, the short walk back to Anders to fulfill their promise had been an utter horror. He had felt as if the physical world was crushing him to pieces, his very being chipped away with the slightest breeze or the faintest rustle of leaves-- that was if the burning sun hadn't melted and evaporated him first. For the first time existing as a spirit, fear and distress had perpetuated his core. Between the unfeeling stiffness of a corpse and a total onslaught of sensations, his and Anders's merging had acted like an anchor tethering him to the shore. He might not make it through the horror of living without one again.

Such were the fate of Justice and Hawke, tying themselves to a world of changes, a world of death. But if there was any lesson that Justice had learned since leaving the Fade - the depth of which he had only now understood - was that no death in this world was inconsequential.

Hawke drifted closer, her flickering figure hovering just in front of him. She sank down until they were face to face.

“I’m sorry for piling all this on you, but… talk to me, Anders. Don’t leave me to myself.”

“You mattered.”

“... What?”

“You thought this was all a failure, but there are still people who draw strength from you. Selby believed in you. She built the whole Mage Underground without even a lick of mana in her blood. Maker, now she makes _me_ believe in you too.” Anders's hands were no longer shielding his face. He confronted Hawke with an open expression, hoping for his sincerity to at least come across. 

“I…”

“It was _unjust_ what was done to you, to mages, that one had to go that far to survive. You did the best you could. And even if you thought it amounted to nothing, it would be all some people have to hold on," he swallowed. "So will I. As long as our people are still caged, I will rattle the bars.”

Hawke shot him a stricken look. Anders raised a finger and continued, softly but firmly.

“But I won’t just throw myself away carelessly. You may never agree with me, but know that if it comes to the worst, it would not be in disregard of your concern. That I would have tried whatever I could, and it would never be my intention to hurt you.”

The spirit stared at him with a dumbfounded face, a pregnant pause stretched between them. Then she threw back her head and laughed. 

“Righteous determination is a good look on you, I have to admit,” she finally said, her tone light and joking. Relief flooded through him.

“Careful, Justice might preen.” 

“You mean _you_ might preen.” 

“So… will the cellar door be open again? I won’t have to sneak through templar patrols and knock from Hightown?”

“Don’t give me that. It was never closed to you.”

Their eyes locked again. Hawke slowly raised a hand, their distance drew short as she reached toward his face, her movements suddenly shy and hesitant. In a moment’s breath, Anders realized they had never touched before. 

As her ghostly fingers phased right through his cheek, Hawke’s hand stilled, disappointment clear in her eyes. Her fingers curled and uncurled, as if trying to grasp onto something, then slowly retreated. She drew her face near then, her words a light breeze grazing his left ear.

“I would never ask anything of you, Anders. Never fear me for that.”

“I know,” he whispered.

She gave him a wide smile as she pulled away; not her usual, careless smile, but one that seemed to make her whole form glimmer even under the growing daylight, almost solid, almost there. 

“Go home.” She gave him a small, cheerful wave, before fading away.

A constant buzz resonated in his head. He heard it when Hawke’s fingers connected with his skin, a hum that had only seemed to grow stronger since:

 _She sings like home_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was a lot of Mage Rights discussions! And proportionally less Hawke... I was really nervous that many of you guys didn't sign up for this, but I hope this chapter cleared my intentions for having it as one of the central themes of this story. Anders was fighting a losing war while Hawke lived through one and died for it; this is pretty much the source of their conflicts, as well as the place where they could find common ground with each other.
> 
> And I hope my interpretation of Fenris was not antagonistic? I think it made sense for Fenris to react the way he did in the scene with Ser Alrik, considering he was also shaken and they all knew each other much less than they did in canon. The wounds were raw, and there was really no Hawke around to hold them back this time! Merrill tried, bless the girl, but they still only had themselves. 
> 
> Anyway, that was a lot of words said. Thank you for the kudos and comments! I hope my intentions have gone through, and that you enjoyed this chapter as well.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those still following my work, apologies for the delayed update! A writer's block alongside final projects was really not something I'd like to experience any time soon... And present me would really like to kick old me in the head for thinking that this chapter was easy.
> 
> But, enough rambling. I and [leyrey](https://leyrey.tumblr.com/) once again teamed up for [another illustration](https://alienturnipp.tumblr.com/post/638983467302027264/oh-my-love-what-have-we-done-we-took-the-heat), this time for one of our favorite scenes in chapter 4. 
> 
> I hope you'll like the new chapter!

Something shifted between them afterward.

Anders didn’t know what to name it, the low, rumbling weight that bloomed in his chest and surged to life whenever the thought of Hawke crossed his mind. Fleeting as it was, her touch from that day had stayed, the sensation still a tingling feeling that sang the most beautiful song, a pure moment of bliss that lasted less than a second.

Justice missed the tune dearly. Anders, who had only known of the song through the spirit’s memory, finally understood the beauty of it.

In a twisted and strange revelation, they were the only ones alike in this crumbling pit: a possessed human who couldn’t know whether or not he was abominable, and a spirit haunting a mansion who couldn’t even name herself. As Kirkwall shed its skin and revealed more and more horror beneath, as faces came and went, memories grew and faded, they drifted closer together, hanging on by the thin thread of their remaining sanity. To Anders, Hawke’s cold, sharp breath had become a familiar comfort, while the spirit’s whole mansion lit up with pulsing veilfire as soon as she heard his footsteps from the cellar.

They traded stories, as they always did. It mattered little that Kirkwall was no source for happy tales; they were both used to laughing at their own misery. Anders treasured each exchange as if it would be their last.

There was longing in Hawke’s eyes whenever they parted. Anders knew not when he started to realize it, but her quiet gaze always stayed with him, steady like a hand on his chest even when the spirit faded into the mansion and he was left to find his way out through the cellar door. Hawke made a habit of always leaving first, usually vanishing after a short nod and a light-hearted wave of her hand. And when the cellar door to the mansion closed behind him, when he was back to closing up wounds in the clinic or plotting against the Gallows with his fellow underground mages, Anders thought about her vivid eyes and lazy smile often, despite Justice’s mild annoyance and, more amusingly, reluctant understanding.

Yet the spirit never touched him again, and he didn’t ask why. No matter how much Justice missed the song, how much _Anders_ missed the song, it was a barrier that they both weren’t ready to cross.

He was sure of this much, however: if the bond between them was undefined, if no Chantry nor men would tolerate what they had, what they were, then _so be it_. If the only bright light in Kirkwall was a nonchalant, glowing spirit, nothing could stop Anders from taking heart in it.

——————————

“Hawke, you never told me how it felt to be possessing a mansion.”

Anders was sprawled across Hawke’s long couch in the library, basking in the warmth of the fireplace. Hawke stayed just out of the heat, her head leaning on a lute with broken strings. The melody of “Andraste’s Mabari” echoed across the moonlit room, singular notes floating idly by every once in a while.

The spirit flashed a toothy smile at the sudden question. “Why, is Justice wishing to move out now? Would he perhaps be interested in my master bedroom? The guestroom is a bit run down and the library is out of the question, I’m afraid, but I don’t mind sharing the place with a friend,” she smirked.

Anders lobbed a breadcrumb from his food basket at Hawke – who grinned, letting the small piece phase right through her palm before catching and tossing it back at him. _Joke’s on you, Hawke,_ he thought as he caught the piece of bread and popped it in his mouth, earning Hawke’s incredulous look, her nose scrunching up in mock disgust. It was… rather adorable, Anders had to admit.

“I’d certainly keep the offer in mind,” he said. “Sadly, any thought at the moment remains, well, curious pondering at most.”

“And what are we curiously pondering?”

“You know me,” Anders shrugged. “Spending decades in the same building without at least one or two escapes is… you can say the thought doesn’t come to me easily. Usually it was First Enchanter Irving’s face that popped up as it comes. I hated the damn bastard, though.”

Hawke snickered. “Old, hairy and smelly, but otherwise not dead, I guess?”

“Precisely.”

“Good thing I’m a spirit then,” Hawke scratched at her nose, putting on her thinking face. “Maybe it’s something about my current state,” she continued, “but I don’t mind the mansion. It’s home. It’s _me._ Talking to you reminds me of how much I used to enjoy people’s company, if anything. Other than that… I haven’t been plagued by rebelling thoughts, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“So… you were content by your lonesome? No wish to leave at all?” Anders realized he was staring at her rather rudely, but – he reasoned – the thought had indeed never come easily. After a year confined to the bottom of Kinloch Hold, sometimes the memory of close walls, darkness and complete silence – _nothing, nothing but my own voice, dry and broken now, no one beyond the bars, no soul to scream at, they have thrown me into the Void and I can’t escape –_ still gripped his throat, as if an invisible chain was still tethering him to that prison cell, miles away across the Waking Sea. He could never imagine making peace with it.

Anders tried to imagine Hawke when she was alone, flitting from one corner of the mansion to the other and talking to herself, to the illusions she created, or worse, to nobody at all.

There was something tender in the spirit’s eyes when she answered him, yet her laugh was dry and airy. “Leave? Mingle with the easily-spooked Free Marchers and run wild with cheerful Tal-Vasshoth on the Wounded Coast, you mean?”

“And why not? It was what you did. You can be enjoying nature, if anything.”

Hawke hummed in what seemed like a wordless agreement. She closed her eyes, and for a while the only sound between them was the lonely, merry tune that spilled from thin air, tugging at the blanket of silence, yet not quite pushing it off. A part of Anders was expecting Hawke’s usual deflection with slight disappointment. Words between them had flown more easily since their talk of her family; before that, deflection had always been her strength. He had thought they would have moved past it. The other part of him simply waited on, apology ready on his lips in case the stillness became overwhelming. 

The song eventually lulled into a stop, and Hawke’s brows furrowed into the lightest frown.

“You know,” she said, “you were right. I used to enjoy all those things, maybe I still do. I enjoyed climbing the endless stairs from Darktown to Hightown, drinking stupid brews and blasting fireballs at the fools who dared cross me. So I should’ve wanted to leave. But…” Hawke trailed off, head tilting to one side and eyes blinking slowly, seemingly lost for words.

 _And whatever does Hawke think? A spirit without a virtue, what could it be ruminating about?_ None of the Chantry’s teachings had prepared Anders for his encounter with Justice; they would hardly be helpful now, in the face of a being quite like Hawke.

When the spirit looked at him this time, her smile was tired and shaky, the edge of her ghostly figure shuddering ever so slightly.

“… But every time I start thinking about it,” she continued, “there is—there is this _fear_ building up inside me.”

She put one hand on her chest, the wound still oozing steady streams of crimson. Anders wondered since when he and Justice had gotten used to the sight.

“It terrifies me,” she said, “tells me I can’t go. What if I can’t recognize Kirkwall outside of these walls? What if the world swallows me, and my mansion crumbles to dust? I can barely remember how my family looked like, I can’t—I can’t lose this too.” A low, heavy sigh. “My past is all I have.”

Something got caught in his chest and, he thought with a click, _oh._

And it was funny, wasn’t it? That they feared the same thing – but while Hawke holed up in the last home she’d had in fear of losing herself, Anders had clawed his way through whatever place that tried to hold him down. He had run, talked, charmed his way out of many things in his life and, when all that had failed, torn his assailant apart with bare hands, his strength fueled by Justice’s might and decades of buried anger. He cut himself apart and gave the pieces away, but he had never surrendered, not to the darkspawns, the Wardens, nor the Templars.

He tried to remember the boy before Anders, one who ran across his family’s wheat field with nary a worry in his head, who had sun-drenched kernels in his hair and dirt in his fingernails; the boy who came home every night to a warm meal and the doting, loving arms of his parents. He had always believed the boy was dead, burnt and buried with the barn that was set on fire that day, and the man who rose from his ash was Anders now, scarred, bitten, gnarling at a world that never seemed to give him peace. But his mother’s pillow was still there, safely hidden among his meager belongings, a port in the storm that he still clung to when his strength wavered. Of all the things that ever came to his possession, only his mother’s last gift had stayed a constant comfort.

“I think I get what you mean,” Anders let out a long breath, his head leaning back on the sofa.

“It’s unlikely that I can ever leave, one way or another,” Hawke was now stretching out on the shallow steps to the library’s raised platform, “so I try not to ponder too much. This evening is your fault, really.”

Anders nodded solemnly, not knowing what to say. The spirit took a long look at him. Then she cackled, hand patting the lute in a soundless rhythm.

“Serves me right, I might say!” She said. “It’s the culmination of my terrible life decisions if you think about it, really: throwing my life to the Qunari, then bam, woke up hugging my living memory for a pillow. Now, the fine company of a possessed rebel apostate is a luxury I didn’t expect.”

Anders turned his eyes toward at the flickering veilfire on the wall, then at Hawke’s carefree face. Even as she was, the spirit was so lively.

“Good thing I’m a possessed rebel apostate then.” He nodded, joining Hawke in her laugh.

“The best. Would’ve given you a sandwich if anything in my pantry was remotely edible.”

Some of the playfulness washed away from Hawke’s face. With the lute set down on the floor, she approached him slowly, hands grabbing onto the couch’s handle. Her gaze pinned him down, firm but not forced.

“I worry for you not only because I like the company, you know,” she said. “I don’t like what _you_ might face. The cause is just, but it takes much out of you, of everyone. You and Justice are passionate. If it ends up all in vain…”

“Hawke, we’ve had this talk—”

“I know, I know. I can’t and won’t stop you from what you must do,” Hawke whispered, her cold breath forming puffs of air in the warmth of the fireplace, only inches away from his face. “It pains me to sit and wait, dreading the worst that could happen out there. I care for you, Anders, so I worry. I wouldn’t wish what I felt on anyone, least of all you.”

Anders did not answer her. He played with the bread in his hand, staring into the crackling fire. In the past, Hawke’s doubt may have angered him, sending Justice into a diatribe about ignorance and complacency. But his own spirit was calm now; a warmth not from the fireplace crept up his neck, an indescribable feeling fluttering in his chest.

Hawke eyed his lack of response with hesitance, already pulling away. “Too much?”

“No, it’s simply… I appreciate the thought, Hawke.” He gave the spirit a genuine smile, settling himself more comfortably on the couch. In his head, Justice offered his own reassurance. _This will not end up in vain, we made a promise,_ the voice whispered.

“Thank you,” was all he told Hawke instead.

As Anders closed his eyes, the thought of Hawke – blue and ethereal and familiar beside him – drifted along with the orange-tinted glow of the waning fire. Slowly and tenderly, they faded into a welcoming veil of darkness, and he let it embrace him.

He woke up to dusky light pouring through tattered curtains. The fire in front of him had died, leaving the library painted in dim shades of yellow between blocks of dark to pale grays. The salted, humid layer of dew that would normally stick to his skin every morning was replaced by a supple warmth, dry and pleasant.

The spirit was nowhere to be seen, but a wool blanket wrapped around his shoulder, a tad musty, fibers split and broken in places. But it was otherwise intact, and so Anders brought it home and folded it neatly next to his mother’s pillow.

——————————

Hawke’s windows offered an excellent view of Hightown’s Central Square.

As per Hawke’s suggestion, Anders took advantage of it whenever he could, keeping himself informed of the city’s noisy affairs while staying away from the scrutinizing eyes of the Templars. Today turned out to be one such occasion, as he and Hawke each kept to one side of the windows, both of them watching with wide eyes the crowd that had gathered right in front of Viscount’s Keep. At the center of it, in broad daylight, First Enchanter Orsino and Knight-Commander Meredith engaged in a heated argument, insults and accusations flung at each other with equal sneer and ferocity.

What a rare scene it made. Privy to the Gallows’ inside rumors as he was, the tension between its First Enchanter and the head of the Templars came as no surprise, but what baffled him was how big a display the said tension had become. Inside rumors had been all they were, disputes and discontent carefully kept behind closed doors much to Meredith’s constant efforts. To have them fight out here in the open… Anders wondered what the situation might imply.

Mistress Selby seemed to share his concerns, for he spotted the older woman standing at the rear of the commotion, arms holding her heavy cloak, gaze intently fixed on the scene as it unraveled in front of the whole Hightown.

“Return to your homes! This farce is over,” Meredith cut through the spectators’ collective murmuring, while Orsino surged ahead, arms open wide in a gesture of barely contained outrage.

“Don’t quench the people’s voice! Kirkwall is not under your rule,” he bellowed.

“And do you speak for the people of Kirkwall at all? You spout excuses for your treason, yet you would tell us to stand idly by while maleficars burn our city to ash!”

“The Templar Order exists to guard the Chantry and the Circle! I suggest you let the nobility rules the city, instead of trampling on them with your self-proclaimed authority.”

Hawke watched the scene from her spot behind the curtains, one bright eye peering through the holes in the fabric. “Quite the little argument they have going on there. Our dear Knight-Commander must be having her smallclothes in a twist.” She snorted, cold air blowing through her nose. 

Anders tapped two fingers on the windowsill, lips pursed in deep thoughts. “Orsino speaks the truth, but Meredith commands fear even in the nobles. If he can’t have the crowd’s support, this would just end up an entertaining show for the onlookers,” he scowled. “‘Oh, the First Enchanter and Knight-Commander are bickering outside of the Gallows, you know, just Mages and Templars things’, the likes.”

The verbal jabbing did indeed drag on, heat climbing and outcome obvious. Two Templars had moved to Orsino’s sides, no doubt ready to drag him back to the Gallows or worse, clap him in irons should the need arise. It was most likely the latter, if the tone in Meredith’s voice was any indication. Anders himself was one good sense away from running down to the crowd and shouting at Meredith, perhaps shooting a fireball or two. _I might be dead, but at least I’d drag the hag down with me. There can be worse bargains._ From the corner of his eyes, he noticed Hawke’s gaze on him, probably catching on to the gears turning in his head. Anders gave her a frustrated shrug in response.

To both his disappointment and relief, the Grand Cleric showed up shortly after, thus ending the chance of any fight erupting and iron being clasped around anyone’s neck. With Orsino quietly escorted away and Meredith tailing him, the Gland Cleric turned to address the crowd.

“Gentle people of Kirkwall… return to your homes, I implore you, ” she pacified, her tone nondescript and ringing hollow in Anders’s ears. “This will not be solved today.”

And the crowd did, indeed, disperse, with the Grand Cleric speaking quietly and briefly to the city guards before retreating back to the Chantry. Just like that, the space emptied, windows closed, shopkeepers tucking their heads back under the canvas of their stall and resuming their daily trades. If they were gossiping about what they just saw, Anders couldn’t hear any of it. The thought made him bristle.

“Hmm…” Hawke let out a low hum. “I fear you were right.”

“Of course that’s all Elthina has to say,” Anders snorted. “Only that woman has the power to muzzle Meredith, yet she does nothing but tells everyone to behave. Why not just speak it plainly then? ‘All problems shall be tucked away like good children, lets it disturbs my sensitive earshot’? Maker knows she told me the same sort of words when I brought up the Tranquil Solution.”

It only added to Anders’ frustration that Orsino - bold as he was today - only managed to achieve as much. His own manifesto made modest rounds across Lowtown and Darktown at most, yet he doubted it had done much good beyond bringing more Templars to his doorstep. Six years after the Blight, people still shuddered at anything that might threaten their relative peace, no matter that the mages had been waiting for the axe to fall for as long as Anders could remember.

If a mage died in silence, did it matter their suffering? If the axe fell in silence, would it matter how much blood was spilled?

A cold gush of air jolted him out of his thoughts. Anders snapped his head toward Hawke, who pointed at the window, eyes wide in alarm before darting back to peer through the curtains.

“Someone sees you,” she whispered. Anders frowned, pressing himself further behind the wall before turning to follow Hawke’s eyes.

Words escaped him as he caught Mistress Selby’s gaze from across the street, unmistakably watchful despite being shielded under the hood of her cloak. She gestured toward the docks when their eyes met, head tilted ever so slightly; then her heels turned, and the woman disappeared behind a corner as swiftly as she appeared.

After a moment of stunned silence, Hawke spoke, her voice strained. “... That your Mistress Selby? She better be. I haven’t had to kill any trespasser for decades now, and I’d _really love_ for it to remain that way.”

“That was her all right,” Anders confirmed, already turning toward the cellar. “I need to go, see what’s wrong. Catch up with you later?”

Hawke shot a last glance toward the window and bit at her lips. Slowly, the spirit drifted closer until her icy breath ghosted his ears, a gesture that had long since become familiar.

“Don’t keep me on edge for too long,” she nodded, then vanished into the ceiling.

——————————

As expected, he found Mistress Selby waiting in the old warehouse.

“How did you know I was up there?” Anders asked as soon as the door was closed.

“I look after my people as much as I can in this Maker-damned city, however little that amounts to. You chose a good hiding place. Not even the Carta dared touch the Champion’s place for years; something about demons and haunting spooked them, or so I’ve heard.” Selby shrugged off her coat and hanged it on the usual crate. Fingers ran through unruly white strands, folding them back into her impeccable coiffure. “If you want a straight answer, I was worried after our talk on the docks, so I sent my maid to the front door to see if you’ve left Hightown. She just managed to catch you going inside the Hawke mansion. I figured it made sense somewhat, after what we’ve discussed.”

Anders eyed her for a moment, then shrugged. “The Carta have good reasons, I’m sure.” He added, not bothering to beat around the bush. “Orsino and Meredith suddenly squabbled right under everyone’s nose, and now you called me down here. Did something happen?”

Mistress Selby didn’t answer right away. Her pose went stiff, the movement slight but noticeable, and Anders felt his own stomach drop in dreaded anticipation. _What is it this time? More blood mages? More mages arrested? More Tranquils? Another Maker-forsaken Solution from the Blighted Templars?_

When Selby finally turned to face him, it was as if her gaze was holding him in a death grip. “Meredith wants to Annul the Gallows. She already sent a request to the Divine.” 

The world went blue, and all noises died in a flash. Then, just as quickly, Anders’s mind exploded in thousands of questions and jumbled thoughts, panic and rage mixing in distorted echoes. 

“What?”, he managed to grit out. _Annul the Circle. Meredith wants the Right of Annulment. She wants to kill everyone, just as we feared. Should’ve killed her instead, right where she stood, just an hour ago, kill her, why did we not—_

The change in his voice didn’t register until he remembered who was in his current company. Anders swallowed down the lump in his throat once, twice, then forced his legs to move, turning away from Selby as fast as he could. 

If the sharp-eyed woman had noticed anything, she offered no comment. 

“Are you sure? Where did you hear this? _When?_ ” Anders pressed as soon as his voice returned to normal. “She couldn’t have sent for the Right too long ago, otherwise we would know— Maker, this is madness.”

“Even Templars from the Gallows have confirmed. Elthina probably rejected it,” Mistress Selby said, “so the request is now traveling the long way to Val Royaux. We... have no way of knowing whether or not it’d go through, however.” 

“Meredith already had the whole city collared! If she really wants to kill us all, she wouldn’t wait for a _paper_. Alrik didn’t stop until I loped off his head _myself_ ,” Anders snapped. The initial numbness had faded, leaving him pacing frantically around the warehouse and biting his thumbnail. 

“... Do you know what the Grand Cleric thinks?” he asked, when no answer came. “Would she stop this?”

Mistress Selby shook her head. “I went to the Chantry myself. Got the usual answer: ‘The Maker’s time is not Men’s time. We do not need to rush, I can’t turn on my Templars’, so on so forth. Oh, I think I know exactly what she thinks: _nothing_ , that’s what.” She sighed, one hand reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose.

“I’m doing damage control for now,” Selby continued. “Only you and a few others are knowing this. We don’t want the whole Underground to go up in flames before a plan is made. I will be traveling to Cumberland and meet up with our network there, see if we can come up with some solutions.”

 _Not enough, not enough._ “And what if we can’t get everyone out in time?” Anders asked. “What if the templars decide that an accident is no cause to give up? What if they hunt us, just like they did those mages from Starkhaven? Can Kirkwall contain Meredith?”

Mistress Selby gave him a curt nod, acknowledging his concerns but unwilling to conclude. “Stay calm, Anders. That is what I would be discussing with our correspondences. The last thing we need is aimless panicking.” Mistress Selby’s hands folded on her dress, tight grip etching wrinkles into the light fabric. “Maker forbid, should we take any drastic measures, I want everyone to be prepared.” 

——————————

They endured the fight with slow and shaky steps, eyes wide open and unflinching.

They all had to, if they wanted to last. The battle is long and soundless, muffled and strangled by a millennium of abuses and prejudices, with pitifully little to hold onto but their sheer stubbornness and righteous anger. Anders refused to believe it at first, writing his manifestos and trying to convince whomever he could that this—this monstrosity could never be the will of the Maker; that surely, they were not alone in their fight. But six years had passed, and all that awaited them is an Annulment dangling around their neck, the Sword of Mercy cutting through all voices of opposition. The dead and Tranquil couldn’t speak, and so more and more of their kind ended up dead or Tranquil every day.

A few weeks had passed since Mistress Selby departed for Cumberland, her notes coming in few and far between, hinting talks of a revolt or staged accident that should allow as many mages as possible to escape before the worst came to pass. Yet the more ruthless Meredith grew in her quest of purging apostates out of Kirkwall, the more restless their whole circle became. Anders and Justice were no better. 

One thing was clear at least: none of the Underground mages wanted to bet on the chance that Meredith would simply stay her hand, even if the Divine denied her the Right of Annulment. With luck, they could live for a little while longer, but how long until the next strike? If their fate was to end with the Sunburst brand or the blade, Anders refused to be a lamb on the way to its slaughterhouse. 

To his touched appreciation, Hawke refrained from voicing her worries aloud and was adamant in her support. Oftentimes it came with updates on the various changes in the Fade, or the hushed whispers that slipped near her earshot as the Hightown nobles worried over the Knight-Commander’s tyranny. Anders took heart in the nobles’ gossips, at the same time mulling over the concerns their talks of the Fade had brought on. Demons preying across the thin and unstable Veil is the last thing he wanted in a city full of unhappy mages. Hawke tried to joke about it ( _"Demon heads à-la-stick? I can think of worst gifts to give you. Should be better than Orlesian ham anyway,”)_ but Anders knew what she feared. Should chaos erupt, the Amell mansion would be a perfect place for the Veil to tear open.

With his heart heavy, his mind exhausted, and Justice raging desperately, Anders trod on. Only the Maker knows where they would end up at the end of this tunnel.

——————————

If the tiniest of flies buzzing out of the Gallows already had them hanging on their feet, the latest assault made the whole Mage Underground swirl in frenzy and throw their chairs askew.

The astounding fact that, for the first time, mages and templars finally ended up working _together_ to overthrow their Knight-Commander was drowned by news of the bloodbath that it’d eventually become. Workers from Darktown spoke of the trails of red still clinging to the Wounded Coast, not quite washed away by the rain and the current, days after it happened.

They didn’t manage to hear much else, however, much to their dismay: the contacts from inside the Gallows had quieted considerably after the debacle, sending only whispers and tidbits of new Tranquils being made and renegade templars brought in for interrogation. What came out of said interrogations, no one had shed a word.

The silence disturbed Anders greatly. Their whole organization was rushing to catch words of potential Templar hunts and the Right of Annulment; but with their severe lack of resources, they found themselves between a rock and a hard place. Meetings between leaders soon devolved into endless squabbling and speculations flung amiss, for which Justice had neither patience nor tolerance. Even during the rare times where the spirits ceased from raging in his head, Anders could still feel his sanity dreading away like sand between grasping fingers.

At long last, when they caught wind of the rebel mages who were now made Tranquil, plans were made to mount a rescue attempt. Meredith held her plans tightly to her chest this time, they knew that much. Attempts to steal information from under the Knight-Commander’s nose would be nigh impossible. But they had little else to lose – time being a resource that they couldn’t afford to waste – and the Tranquils’ inability to lie was their best bet to squeeze out as much information as they could from the Gallows. So Anders pooled in what favors he was owed from the clinic to contact some Carta members; then they braced the attempt with what they had, despite how exceptionally risky and foolish it might be.

The Tranquil who came back to them – after two deaths of their own and one of their dwarven contracts – called himself Alain.

“We told them all that we knew, Sers,” Alain answered their question with an impassive voice, regardless of all the pairs of eyes pinning on him. “Who we contacted, what our moves were, who else in the Circle sympathized with us. Everything that the Knight-Commander required.”

“What does she know about us?” One of theirs – a dark-skinned elf named Johann – pressed, knuckles pressed tight against the table. With a large burn on half his face and one glassy, unblinking eye, few people wanted to provoke Johann in his bad mood; Anders had seen templars cowering in front of the elderly mage before meeting their ultimate demise. As if hearing a bell, the room swallowed all whispers and fidgeting, watching on in dreaded anticipation.

Alain continued with not so much as a flinch.

“The Knight-Commander knew about your organization long ago, Ser. It was only now that she got the name of your leader.”

——————————

The warning letter they sent to Mistress Selby was met with silence. All her notes ceased afterward.

Hawke kept a constant look on Selby’s front door, yet the only report the spirit had been able to give him every night was a reluctant headshake. The pacing and turning didn’t do much good, either, so he tried to focus on his work in the clinic while Justice stewed over multiple ways to retaliate if worst came to worst. So far, Anders liked none of the options.

 _People will end up dead either way. Kill those responsible for these abuses, and we shall let the world see. The Templars want us to go down in silence! They would go after each one of us while we scuttle like rats. Or we could strike a blow first, and_ no one _will be able to ignore this injustice any longer._

_And if the world see my action as proof for the corruption of mages? What if they side with Meredith?_

_They would_ never _take a side if the truth is not exposed to them! Darktown had kept me alive until now, have they not? The Chantry was not here when these people needed help._ I _was._ I _healed them. Let Meredith come! The people will choose justice when they see her madness._

“—ders, the kettle is boiling.” Merrill’s voice shook him out of his internal fracas. He jolted from his desk, leg almost knocking over the basket of elfroot he was picking.

From where it hung atop the small fire, the kettle was whistling in a high-pitched, irregular cadence. Anders scrambled over to pull it off.

“Are you busy? I can… come back another time?” The elven girl was still hovering near the desk, feet shuffling nervously.

Anders looked around the clinic, now empty and quiet in the late afternoon with only the sound of waves slapping against grey stones, an off-tuned ballad of a beggar echoing through the front door. He raked a hand through his hair and gestured toward a nearby cot, then turned to rumble through his kitchen supplies.

Steaming kettle in hand, he poured the water in two waiting teacups, then handed one over to Merrill who received it with a murmur of thanks. She pressed the tea leaves with a spoon, carefully sipping as she went.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he sniffed the herbal scent from his own cup, decidedly not looking at her.

“Normally you’re just grumpy, but now you’re grumpily distracted. Like a drenched cat licking its wet furs.”

Anders’ stare was met with a shrug.

“I’ve got… challenges,” he settled on saying.

“You’ve always got those,” Merrill’s eyes blinked in confusion, “is it about the Mage Underground? Oh… I’m asking for classified information, aren’t I?”

“Why are you here, Merrill? The next batch of potions would be a few days away at least.” Anders cut in, letting the lack of answer confirm her thoughts.

At his sudden question, the elf resumed her nervous fidgeting. Anders waited with one raised eyebrow as the girl bit her lips, fingers drumming on her cup as if having an internal debate. Somehow he had an idea of where this was going.

“Have you thought about the trip to Sundermount?” She finally spoke, her tone cautious and wary.

Anders couldn’t stop a disapproving frown from showing on his forehead. Of course it would be about her foolish, foolish, dangerous quest.

“Must you pursue this?” He sighed. “It’s a demon you’re dealing with. Nothing good will come out of it!”

“Believe me, I know. I wouldn’t resort to this if I have any other choice. That’s why I asked you to come with!”

“You do have other choices. Stop consorting with your demon and get rid of that cursed mirror!” He threw his hand in the air, his tea promptly abandoned. “Join us, Merrill. Why don’t you stand with Kirkwall mages?”

Merrill shook her head stubbornly. “It’s not my fight.”

The immediate refusal took Anders aback.

“You’re a mage, this affects you too! Your clan wouldn’t want you,” he snapped. “You’re part of us now, don’t you see?”

“No!” Merrill cried out. “I left them, but I’m still Dalish before all else. Everything I do, I do it for my People.”

“Like your Eluvian?” Anders bit out.

“Yes, like my Eluvian.” Merrill set her cup down near the edge of the cot, rubbing her forehead tiredly. “It is my life work, Anders, as much as the plight of mages is yours.”

They’d had this argument many times before. As sweet and gentle as Merrill was, she could be more stubborn than Velanna and the Warden-Commander combined, especially when it came to restoring elven culture and her own cursed mirror. Anders knew he was being cruel toward her. But more than anything, he knew the risks of possession, had been bearing the consequences of it until this day. No cruelty would amount to what the girl would suffer when her body was taken over by a demon, yet Merrill wouldn’t hear any of it.

It bothered him to no end. A part of him wondered if it was because of the cruel reminder that her resolve had brought. Not even Merrill, a mage, an _apostate_ , would be willing to fight for the cause of mages now. The poor fought for survival, the merchants fought for coins, the nobles fought for power, and the Chantry fought to maintain their millennium-old hierarchy.

So foolish of him, to count on outsiders’ help.

Swallowing down the bitter taste, Anders nodded stiffly. “It might be best that you don’t help us,” he said. “Maybe you should even leave Kirkwall. Meredith is planning to have every mage killed.”

Merrill’s eyes widened. “By the Dread Wolf,” she breathed, “she _wouldn’t_. That’s not right! Can she even do it?”

“‘Right’ wouldn’t be the word I use to describe her mental state. And maybe she wouldn’t succeed, but none of us is willing to bet on that anyway,” he finished his tea in one last gulp, the heat burning down his throat. “If you’re not willing to fight, then the further from the city you are, the safer you’d be.”

“… Right,” Merrill didn’t say anything more than that, her fingers fidgeting with the rim of her cup. When the silence had become unbearable, the girl rubbed at her feet and stood, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her pointed ears. “Thank you for telling me, Anders,” she hesitated. “About the trip…”

Anders sighed. “I will go with you. Maker knows I can’t approve of it, but I can’t stop you either. This way at least I’d be there to stop the worst from happening.”

The nod she gave him was strained but acknowledging nonetheless. No matter. They both knew this wasn’t going to be pleasant.

Besides, he planned to wait for news from Mistress Selby first.

——————————

No news, no news, no news.

They wrote to Cumberland, yet the only answer that managed to come back was a short note, confirming that Mistress Selby had left the city almost a week ago. What plans that were discussed between them was deemed too dangerous to be sent by letter, and all news was cut off until the risk of exposure between their ranks had been properly evaluated. The Gallows remained silent. They were, once again, left amongst themselves.

Anders was trudging toward Hawke’s mansion now, days old Sundermount dirt and demon gore caked in thick layers around his boots. _At least it was not blood_ , he thought. No, the blood was on Merrill’s hand and Merrill’s knife, spilled as she plunged the metal piece into the heart of her late Keeper. The demon had had its deal, but it was not Merrill who paid the price.

Anders faintly thought he should have been angry, livid even, but the elf’s tear-stained face when she pulled out her knife reminded him too much of Karl and that night in the Chantry. So he kept silent as they made their long, winding way back down the mountains, through corpses and undead and the hateful gazes of the Sabrae clan. Now, as he neared Hawke’s cellar door, Anders tried to not think of it at all.

A pool of dried blood near the door caught his eyes. He paused, stream of thoughts abruptly cut off.

He would’ve remembered if the blood was his. No, this stain was new. As the door opened for him, veilfire lighting up the walls, Anders noticed several dark spots from where he stood right up toward the stairs, forming an uneven streak.

_What in the Void…_

His confusion was cut short as cold air breezed through his neck, and Hawke appeared in a flash of blue. With a wave of her hand, the door promptly closed; then the spirit gestured for him to follow her up the stairs, not wasting even a second.

“Good, you’re finally here,” she started. “Come, I have been waiting for you. Well, _we_ have been waiting for you, rather desperately at that.”

“ _‘We’_? What the fuck, Hawke? What happened?” Anders hissed.

“See for yourself, would you?” was all she said, as the spirit led him into the lobby room.

The sight stopped Anders short in his track and stole the words out of his mouth. There, huddled near the fireplace was an elven woman, skin starch pale and feverish, her eyes clouded, fingers clutching tight around her stomach. The bandages dressed around her abdomen had been drenched in red; a thin layer of blue light was covering her, preventing any more blood from escaping. Judging by the state of the elf, not much was left inside anyway.

Anders rushed toward her, sleeves already rolled up and fingers glowing in healing magic. Through the elf’s disheveled state, he faintly recognized her as one of Mistress Selby’s maids. _Blast and blazes._

Hawke hovered near the head of the couch, her own fingers hovering atop the woman’s temples. “Selby’s servant, or so she’s told me. I saw her leaned on my cellar door, calling for your name, so… I took her in, lest she bled out. I try to keep her alive as long as I can, but I’m afraid there’s not much else I can do without… without possession. Sorry.”

At Anders’s tensed nod, Hawke released her barrier on the woman while ghostly fingers grazed across her forehead. The elf jolted awake from her daze, eyes darting around until they caught Anders’. She surged up to catch his hand, her pupils blown wide and mouth working around a series of incoherent words.

“The mistress…t—told me to run, find the Healer… They kill—killed her… Caught me with— with an arrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andddddd we're one chapter left until the end of this ride.
> 
> One of my main motivations when writing this story was to explore the in-game codex about the Mage Underground, especially during act 3 when Meredith requested the Right of Annulment and started to crush the whole organization. I really believe that Anders’s efforts in fighting for Mage Rights were a collective, group effort, instead of the one-man army we usually see in the game. I felt like I could’ve done a better job of fleshing out the characters from the Mage Underground, but I’ve decided to tone done for the sake of the story’s limited length. Writing Mistress Selby as an important character is a refreshing experiment for me, however!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand here we are, the finale! It took so long again, but I hope I managed to compensate for it with the length. There are many things happening in this last chapter.
> 
> I sincerely hope you will enjoy the content of it as well. I'm extremely anxious right now!
> 
> And as always: many, many thanks for those who have enjoyed this story, and for my precious proofreader who had sat with me through the ups and downs of my (frankily messy) work process. Your kindness really means a lot to me.
> 
> Without further ado, let's start!

“The mistress…t—told me to run, find the Healer… They kill—killed her… Caught me with—with an arrow.”

Anders stared speechlessly, his body suddenly rendered frozen as if it had forgotten how to move. One by one the words dropped, jagged stones crashing to the bottom of his stomach, which tightened and lurched painfully. He felt like vomiting.

A wet cough from the elven maid snapped him back to focus, and he let out a soft curse before swallowing the bile in his throat. He rushed to work the bandages open, spiraling thoughts momentarily shoved away. _Keep calm,_ the voice in his mind supplied. 

Hawke’s face, on the other hand, was stone-set and grim. She probably had already heard the news.

“…Who did it?” Anders gritted out as he started to inspect the damage. He cursed again when his magic reached inside her body, realizing how far the infection had spread. The woman dropped like a sack on the couch as pain and exhaustion finally overtook her efforts, teeth grinding together in silent agony. He had to act quickly.

“The Templars… on our way b—back. Wanted to take her alive, but...” She stammered then stopped, her sentence cut short. After two shallow, labored breaths, the maid continued. “I… hid… ran to your clinic… but you weren’t—weren’t there. Waited for a day… Then I re—remembered… you went to the Amell mansion that night. So I had to try,” her eyes shifted toward Hawke, who was still hovering nervously near the couch. “Maker bless me, I think I’m insane.”

“I told you that you’re not,” Hawke muttered.

The maid shook her head faintly, hands grabbing once again for Anders’. “Y—you need to know, Healer,” she breathed.

The woman was waning fast, her eyes clouded and unfocused. Anders called on his spells to undo the damage, spirit energy reaching out to clean the blood of the poison and restore dead flesh with new ones. Anders noticed that he was scraping at the bottom of his mana reserves. _Not the time._ He couldn’t give up. Justice fueled the healing spells with his power, and everything else was pushed aside except for the barely breathing body beneath his hands.

“T—they will come for you. For us. Everyone.”

“I won’t let them,” he reassured. “But you need to live first.”

“I—” The elf gasped, but Anders cut her off, gesturing for Hawke to come closer.

“Hush. People with worse injuries have yet to die under my hands, so don’t you worry about it. Hawke, can you keep her awake?”

“Right on it.”

——————————

Kirkwall outside Hawke’s mansion was pitch black. As he dashed for the cellar door, the spirit surged up to block his way.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“To warn the others? Where else would I be going?” he ignored her and pressed ahead, only to be pushed back by a barrier and Hawke’s pinning stare. The barrier’s force was not so strong that he couldn’t break through it; he sent a warning growl at Hawke regardless, the latter answering his challenge with her own stubborn scowl.

“You are not going anywhere in that state.”

“ _Move aside, Hawke_. I have no time nor desire to argue with you.”

“Nuh-uh. Your mana is drained, you’re dead on your feet, and now you’re glowing blue,” she said. “So no, _Justice_ , I’m not moving.”

Through the livid blue glaze coating his eyes, Hawke’s frame held firm and bright like a lyrium torch. The cellar door was shut tight behind her. He put his hands – cracked and burning with blazing veins – on her barrier and pushed through, taking slow and shaky steps ahead until the translucent coat started to shrink and flicker. Hawke flinched, but did not seem willing to draw back.

“They killed our leader!” he yelled at her and his own voice felt strange, broken and strangled amidst the booming echoes. “She was an admirable woman, a _just_ woman – she spent her life championing for the cause of mages even when she was not one of us. You would not find another like her in this city. And they cut her down! I will NOT let her legacy be trampled upon any second longer!”

“And what are you going to do in the middle of the night? Do you even know how to reach the other mages now?”

“Darktown does not sleep, Hawke!”

“Neither do the Templars!”

“Precisely! The Templars are still out there, so I will not waste my time here.”

“You think walking around like a glowing blue stick will not draw any eye? They will scramble for your head if they catch you like this.”

**“Then. Let. Them. Come!”**

Hawke’s eyes squeezed shut, face scrunched up with unveiled exasperation.

“Shite,” the spirit bunched her hands into fists before throwing them in the air. A frustrated groan escaped her lips. He braced himself for another onslaught, but the barrier fizzled out and died with a snap of her fingers, leaving him suddenly thrown off and stumbling to regain balance.

Hawke put her hands down, surprisingly placating after the intense protest. Her voice dropped low and tired.

“You’re right. Yelling at a thick-headed reckless Fade spirit is just the worst idea, ever,” she sighed. He threw her an annoyed scowl, but Hawke only shrugged it off and brushed the steam from her shoulders. “Look, Justice, I know this is an urgent matter and I’m not saying you should abandon your brothers in arms altogether, but you can’t run a _secret_ organization if the whole Kirkwall can follow Templar blood trails to your bases, yes?”

He eyed her wearily. “Speak frankly, Hawke.”

“How about this: You let Anders rest until he can stand on his feet without your help, clean those grimes and gores off your clothes, then take a lyrium potion. After that, I will help you plan out whatever you want to do. There’s a safer way than charging out on a suicide run under the night sky, I’d wager,” Hawke crossed her arms. “You need a list of people to contact, damage assessment, plans to regroup, and new leadership, _not_ a revenge spree. At least not _right now_.”

“Compromises.”

“Necessities, Justice. For Anders too. The human body has limits, and you shouldn’t break his.”

Hawke’s last phrase was a cold slap, and he physically recoiled. As much as he loathed to admit, the healing session had taken a toll on them both. Anders’ mind was dwelling sluggishly at the back of their shared mental space, barely clutching on the tethers of anxiety, grief and sheer stubbornness to keep himself awake and aware of their surroundings. Their body was worn out, beyond exhausted. He would have crumbled right on the lobby floor had Justice not seized control.

“We keep failing, Hawke. What have I done wrong?” the confession came out a broken whisper, strangely small and foreign through his own voice. It left a gnarling hole in his stomach.

Hawke’s eyes softened as she approached. “You know this can’t be put on your shoulders alone. Not even a spirit like you.”

“This is not Justice.”

“No, it is not. I'm sorry for your loss.”

He closed his eyes, defeated, the fight draining from his shoulders. His knees buckled, and as Anders fell to the floor and curled into a silent, shaky mess, Hawke sat down beside him.

——————————

Unlike other major crises that had swept over their little organization in the past, their leader’s demise was met with grim pragmatism. The notes being sent out were curt, straightforward, containing facts and not much else. Their correspondences had, in turn, replied swiftly with similar fashion, and they proceeded at once with their new survival plans. Wallowing over and contemplating their impending failure was simply too hard to conceive.

Whatever skills Selby’s elven maid had claimed to pick up from her time in the Alienage, they have allowed her to cut the templars’ trail even with a wound on her back. The woman was safe now, out of Hawke’s mansion (to the spirit’s guilty relief) and on her way with the soon-to-move Dalish clan. Anders was thankful that the clan still agreed to take her in, despite their increasing animosities following Keeper Marethari’s death. Small comfort, however, as the Mage Underground’s remaining leadership was soon swept over with countless other concerns.

“We can’t keep on like this!” Anders slammed one hand on the wonky table, making tiny candle stubs jump and rattle, the huddled shadows of their group shaking over enclosed cave walls. “Normally I could bite this lay-low-and-wait tactic, but there is still the Annulment! Laying low doesn’t mean nug shit if they’re out for all mages’ head the next day.”

Around the table, a dozen pairs of eyes stared at him. Some turned away and at each other quickly after, reactions varied between hushed agreement, uncertainty, and outright disapproval. Lady Clarel – the newly appointed coordinate for their smuggling routes – leaned forward and leveled his glare with a scowl.

“We’re financially hobbled. Acting right now is akin to suicide,” she challenged. “Are you suggesting that we keep up with our rescues and expose our insider agents to Meredith? She’s already hounding on us!”

“When hasn’t she?” Anders rolled his eyes. “If the Right is invoked then they’re dead either way!”

“Then what do you suggest, serah?” Clarel crossed her arms, her tone bordering on irritated. “A plan that can be accomplished with our limited resources, not blissful ideals? You don’t mean we wage an open war against all Templars.”

Oh, blasted woman. “You don’t want to take actions, you don’t want to take risks. The Mage Underground might very well dissolve then,” he scoffed.

On the other end of the table, Johann shot him a pointed look. His new leadership over the Mage Underground also seemed to come with the ability to pin anyone down with just a gaze. Anders mentally squirmed under the scrutiny, but he decided to ignore it.

Clarel took his taunt in kind, however. “The Mage Underground saves people and gives our lives doing it, not swing our staves blindly and hopes it sticks somewhere!”

“Even if we want to resume our activities, we can’t just magic new railroads and smugglers contacts from thin air,” another mage – Donis – chimed in. “Half of our budget was gone with Mistress Selby, and Cumberland’s aids would take another week to arrive! We can’t rely on Lady Clarel’s money alone.”

“Nevertheless,” Johann rapped his knuckles on the table, “the Right of Annulment is on our neck. We don’t have much time.”

“We don’t have the budget either, serahs,” Clarel groaned.

Someone whispered from a corner. “It’s been weeks now. Maybe the Divine rejected it?”

Another voice hissed back. “Then the Knight-Commander would do it anyway! She’s already filling buckets with mage blood.” At that, the table erupted in a litany of voices.

“Can we request help from other places too? Tantervale? Otswick?”

“Surely you jest. Otswick is filled with Aequitarians.”

“What about the nobles? They hate Meredith too.”

“The second thing they hate after Meredith can very well be ‘blood mages’ and ‘apostates!’”

“Then what else can we do now? Donis and Clarel were right, we don’t have the budget to mount new rescues.”

“We’re already doing too few that is.”

“I don’t like it, sitting around, waiting for the blades… If the Circle is annulled then our whole operation is pointless.”

“Johann,” Anders looked at the elderly elf, who was observing the whole discussion with his usual, unreadable face, “you said Cumberland suggested a staged accident, like the one in Starkhaven? How likely is this plan?”

Johann nodded, raising a finger to signal the table’s attention.

“It’s… risky, to say the least, but probably the only way that we might save a large number of mages in one go,” he sighed, looking over the sketches of their old routes’ maps. “We need something that would distract the Templars, spread their forces out or at least away from the mages, and the capacity to sneak a large number of them away safely as soon as the possibility presents itself. It would be one hell of a coordinating task.”

“There is also the potential damage,” Clarel said. “Direct collateral on mages, whether it is the Templar Hall or the Mage Quarter that ends up burning…”

“And there is no way to predict Meredith’s reactions! She might decide that it’s no accident anyway, that the mages themselves cause it,” Donis added.

“We don’t want to end up killing those we want to help. Maybe direct the damage somewhere else… not the Gallows, possibly,” Anders pursed his lips.

Johann shook his head. “Then we can’t guarantee that the Templars will engage. They take control of the city in all but name, but their foremost priorities are still within the Circle and the Chantry.”

What an irony. If only Johann knew about the options Anders and Justice have been mulling over, the recipe for disaster that’d been hiding under his desk. Throwing out those options right now would flip the metaphorical table they have been gathering around with no small effort, however. _And oh, to think that we’re so far doomed that such a measure is to be considered._ So Anders refrained from voicing it out. _No, it is a last resort and nothing more._

They fell into strained silence. No one moved for a while, save for the flickering of candles, the occasional irritated huffs and nervous fidgeting. 

Johann was the first to speak, his deep voice resolute and clear, long and bony fingers shuffling over the various maps and letters strewn over the table. “Lady Clarel, whatever course of actions we end up taking, a new railroad would still be our first priority. We can retrieve Mistress Selby’s old contacts and negotiate another deal with our current budget. When further aids arrive, a list of expenses will need to be prepared. I trust you and Donis with the details.”

After a silent beat, Clarel nodded. Her posture had somewhat relaxed after their little spat, but her face was still tense. “Already doing the best we can, serah,” she ended up saying.

“And that’s all we can ask,” Johann said. “I will keep overseeing our agents and look for the appropriate time to take action. There are still some people that can notify us if an Annulment is invoked, but our plans remain speculations until we have proper resources in our hands. That will be for another week at least. Until then, I want everyone to stay _away_ from the Templars and the Chantry. Understood?” The elf was looking at Anders now. He shifted on the chair, once, twice, then nodded grudgingly. “And that will be all. Thank you for coming, serahs,” Johann announced for the room at large, his tone leaving no room for objection.

And so their group dispersed, “Thank you” and “Good day” murmured at each other before they trickled out of the cave, leaving in small groups as to not draw unwanted attention. An awkward hour later, only Anders and Johann were left in the dimly lit space, the former all too aware of the latter’s eyes following him.

As Anders stood from his own chair and prepared to leave for the clinic, Johann suddenly spoke up.

“Anders, a word?” he said.

Anders, still steaming with lingering frustration underneath, didn’t turn his head. He stopped nonetheless. “What for?”

Johann gestured Anders to his chair. “Merely to have a talk that doesn’t end up with shouting. Lady Clarel means well, but we’re all wrung tight. Her tasks have become more arduous in particular, and her identity more exposed to our enemies.”

Anders made a grunt in agreement. He could not deny that.

“You don’t seem very well, either,” Johann continued.

Anders winced. “Are you? This new leadership can’t be a welcomed change.” The chair creaked as he dragged it through the stone floor, and his spine groaned slightly as he settled down on it.

“Creators, I feel closer to the grave already. But such is my honor and my responsibility.” The older elf chuckled, the burn scar pulling stiffly at wrinkled skin under the dim light. “I can tell you’re not happy with our current directives.”

“More at the situation itself. I never do well with enclosed walls, literally or figuratively.”

“You have legit concerns,” Johann nodded, “ones that are not easily answered with an organization such as ours. Mistress Selby built the Mage Underground with rescue as its most important purpose, which Lady Clarel had astutely remarked upon. Never had we imagined changing the fate of _all_ mages, only that we might take as many steps as we can and inspire others to build upon them.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Anders sighed, “I knew that we aimed for small steps. I _made peace_ with it, years ago,” his arguments with Hawke, the talk with Mistress Selby on the docks, he remembered them like they were yesterday, “But now? We’re not even making changes anymore. Manifestos, petitions, protests, rescues, they laughed it all off. The Templars and the Chantry drive us into a wall, and we _keep withdrawing_! That’s why I said we couldn’t keep on like this.”

“I agree.”

… Well, that was a first.

“You… you agree?” Anders parroted, flabbergasted. “Then…”

The elf tilted his head slightly, fingers ghosting over the burn scar on his face. “I grew up with the stories of my People and has lived the rest of my life with the mages. I know something about the hard price of freedom. But it’s never easy on the mind, isn’t it? How much destruction you can wage, how many lives to be lost until the end goal can be achieved,” Johann was looking at his maps again. “Whether or not one might cross the line.”

Anders swallowed slightly.

“When the aids from Cumberland come, _if_ they come,” Johann continued, “I would like for us to go for one last compromise. As least damage as we possibly can. If we are successful, the fight will go on. I aim to have everyone’s support on this. Respect, if nothing else.”

“… I understand.”

Johann actually _chuckled_. “And I appreciate that. But as I said, I know the hard price of freedom. If our plan doesn’t work…” he blinked slowly, “one last chance to fight might be all we get, in the end.”

“What do you think, Johann? Of our chances?”

The smile Johann gave him was humorless, full of wrinkles, and the shaky lights from the candles hugged his face like a bad omen.

——————————

It was raining up a Blight on the Wounded Coast. Anders pulled the raincoat’s hood further over his head and wiped thick, fat droplets of water off his face, turning away from the darkening sky. _At least this way there might be fewer unwanted followers,_ he thought. Even the City Guard detested this weather.

He made his way up the rocky passage, plodding through winding paths and crooked turns toward their designated meeting location. It was not ideal for the mages to set up a hideout between bald cliffs and grey sand, nested among slaver caves and bandit settlements, but circumstances did not allow for better alternatives. They had met up behind Lirene’s shop a handful of times – Maker bless the woman – yet for matters of utmost secrecy and importance, a wall of hostilities between them and the Templars was their better bet. Even if said hostilities might sometimes turn back and stab them in the shin.

The plan today was to discuss their next moves in detail, now that their aids had finally arrived. The news – delivered in Johann’s elegant writing – had Anders giddy for days with anxious excitement. Hawke had been quick to point this out: _“I thought befriending a ghost was bound to make one somewhat morose, apparently it’s just the lack of good news,”_ she’d said with a chuckle. 

Unfortunately, cynicism had slowly won over, as the day of the meeting drew close and not much of a breath was heard from the Gallows. _Such great weather for positive thoughts too,_ Anders mused while climbing along a cliffside, careful not to slip on the slick rocks.

As soon as he regained his footing on a flat clearing, he caught it: the echo of a scream piercing through the air. Another one came just a moment later, this time followed by the tingling pull of a spell being cast, which was then quickly snuffed by… _no._

 _No, no, no no no._ Anders would know the signs from a mile long. He couldn’t be mistaken. Even its residue would have him spring on his feet.

“A templar’s Spell Purge,” Anders breathed.

He didn’t know how fast his legs were sprinting toward the cave entrance, just that he was _not fast enough. Not enough,_ he thought, as his nails splintered and broke, lyrium-veined hands clawing on the rocks to climb up the last steps. _Not enough,_ he thought, as the mouth of their hideout cave revealed a group of four templars standing guard, the clang of metals clashing against a deafening roar – his own, he realized with a start – as soon as the group drew arms. 

_NOT. ENOUGH,_ he screamed, as the blade of his staff’s end jammed against the throat of his first opponent. The choked gurgle did nothing to temper his wrath. There was no bloodthirst, no thrill from this battle. Just hatred and fury. Hatred and fury and unabated _terror_.

In the end, Justice dragged the last living templar by his throat across puddles of rainfall and blood. He slammed the struggling man against a rock wall, broken nails digging against flesh – enough to draw blood, but not enough to kill.

From further inside the cave, the sound of fighting had ceased.

“Make good use of your last living moments, _mortal_ ,” he growled. “Tell me how you got here.”

The templar managed to _smirk_ , even as he was gasping for breath. “So there are abominations in… in your rank after all. What monsters. Your kind—your kind wanted help?” a laugh, abruptly cut off by Justice’s tightening grip, “you will get none. The… the Knight-Captain… knew about this little supply trip. About your little rendezvous… Maker curse you... Your aids are dead! And so will—”

He didn’t quite manage to get out the last word. Justice’s hand snapped, and he was running down the cave even before the body hit the ground.

The short way down was filled with foul scents. Anders, still charred by lyrium cracks at the edges, gingerly walked over slippery stones, ears strained as if to catch any sight of movements. As he neared the end of the narrow passage, he heard it: the heavy breathing and someone’s hiccupped sobs slipping through the sound of battering rain. Anders rushed his last steps, a storm of thoughts swirling in his head: _Who lives? Is it templar? Are they having one of us captured? Or is it—_

He came face to face with Johann. The older elf widened his eye almost imperceptibly, before stepping back and dropping his energy blade. 

“Anders,” Johann was breathing heavily, but his tone was that of relief. “Any templar left outside?”

He could only numbly shake his head. Or maybe he did not, _Maker I don’t know_ – as his mind was pulled toward the scene in front of him.

There was blood, and there was flesh. What were once templars and mages were pinned on the wall, bent awkwardly over broken furniture or sprawling across the cave’s rocky surface. Bodies and limbs laid twisted, charred and spilling red, hanging limply from metal plates, robes, leather boots, or flung feet away from all of them. Some were still standing, frozen solid mid-action, gleaming sword and enraged expression encased in a spell of Winter’s Grasp. Anders couldn’t make out the number of them all, especially _his people, their people, all gone in a flash…_

Amidst the carnage, Johann slowly relaxed from his Knight-Enchanter posture. His back was hunched, and his right foot was twisted in an unnatural angle. The elf’s smuggler armor was splattered with blood and gore, pieces of leather arm guard barely hanging in place. 

Crouching not far away from him was Clarel, sobbing and shaking over the body of Donis—or what’s left of it. There was no grave injury save for a bleeding gash on one side of her head, but the woman’s eyes were blotchy and red, full of pain and full of hatred. Her lips trembled like a leaf in the wind; only incorrigible sounds were able to escape.

_Maker…_

_…No. The Maker can’t allow this. It can’t be—_

“Healer,” Johann called again, now sinking down the nearest wall. Anders snapped out of his trance. He made shaky steps toward the elf on instinct, only for Johann to point a finger toward Clarel with a tired “Might be concussion” as explanation. Anders followed the direction, too dazed to do anything else.

Clarel’s face was hot in his hands. He tried his best to clean up the wound before working up his healing spells, but the woman was shaking during the whole process. When he pressed another potion into her hand, her sobs finally ceased. 

The next words she spoke were choked up and raw. “There’s no… There’s no surviving with the Templars, is there?” Clarel’s one arm was still holding on tightly to her fallen comrade. She raised the potion to her lips, her grip still trembling.

Johann dragged himself to sit next to them and uncorked a potion for himself, his face scrunching up between bitter swallows. Anders gestured toward his twisted foot. The elf gave him a slight nod, and he set to work in silence.

Clarel had stopped crying, but he could still see wet streaks on her face, red-tinted and dirty from blood and grime. She was no longer holding Donis’ body; instead she turned as far away as possible, huddling closer to the last two living people beside her.

 _“—where will it lead you? A smear on the list of countless attempts to oppose the Chantry in vain?”_ Once again, Hawke’s questions came back to Anders in a rush. Anders felt his numbness fall away like the cap of a bursting bottle: pain, anger, and overflowing despair spilled over every fiber of his being. He didn’t know if he had cried, for his whole body was still wet and trembling from the rain outside, droplets of water falling from everywhere: his hair, his face, his shaky fingers, the feathers on his coat.

“Never again shall we submit,” Johann said. It was directed at both Anders and Clarel and, at the same time, no one but the elf himself. As Clarel surged ahead to lock Johann in a tight hug, he buried his face in her shoulders.

It was a grim realization that came to Anders at last. Justice did not rage, not anymore. _No choice left,_ was all that was said from the voice in his head, and he finally let the thought take him.

——————————

They couldn’t bury the dead, for fear of Templar reinforcements. In the end, there was not much else to patch up but themselves. They left the bodies of their enemies and comrades in the mountains, yet it felt as if parts of themselves were also left behind to rot. 

Anders did not visit Hawke that night. Nor did he sleep. He waited with wide eyes until he heard the sound of daytime activities starting to pick up in Darktown, then strode out of the clinic with a dark cloak covering his head. 

Anders stopped in Lowtown first to give a short update to Lirene. Her arms were full from accommodating the Fereldens refugees in her shop, but she made time for him regardless, asking after his and the mages’ wellbeing before stuffing a basket of food (Maker knows how she always had those) in his hands. Anders couldn’t lie to her, so he gave her a redacted version of the truth. The basket, he refused.

The walk to Hightown was long and tiring, but at least there was no pouring rain. He made quick steps through dark alleys and never-ending stairs until the Kirkwall Chantry stood in front of him, its imposing height and golden statues swallowing in all the sunlight, polished, gleaming and glamorous. 

The statues were from the time of the Imperium, Anders mused. Probably depicting powerful magisters. Ironic, but also oddly fitting. Those who used power and beliefs to bend the world and oppress others often ended up in the same place.

“‘Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift, and turned it against His children,’” Anders recalled the prayer under his breath, and walked inside.

The Chantry smelled of burning candles and rich incense. His footfalls resonated through the somber air, sharp and clear each time his heels collided with the smooth stone floor. Giant statues holding bowls of fire flanked the entrance, and towering over them all was Andraste: golden halo shining like the sun, her face still and impassive, uncaring of the templars standing guard and the Chantry sisters praying at her feet.

Anders felt incredibly out of place. Amidst the prayers floating from all corners of the large building, there was no peace of mind to be sought, no solace to be felt. Yet a strength fueled his steps, reminding him of his present purpose. _One last time, long overdue as it is._

Anders forced his legs to carry him over to the higher platform, where he could confront the most powerful person in the city. 

“Your Grace,” he greeted, pulling the hood off of his head.

The Grand Cleric turned from the sun-drenched windows. Sunlight framed her white hair and slender frame, flattering the sheen of the expensive silk that was used to weave her clothes. 

“My child,” she greeted cordially, “have you come to pray?”

During his long six years in Kirkwall, Anders could only count on one hand the times he had seen Elthina face to face. The last time was several months ago, perhaps half a year. She looked no different now: still that old, wise face, carefully coiffed hair and tempered smile. The way she moved was still eternally graceful, and her calm voice still carried through the cloister as if endowing a sermon.

Even as Kirkwall burned around her, and she did nothing to stop it. Anders remembered the bags under Mistress Selby’s eyes and the new scars etching on Johann’s already wrinkled face, and could not help the contempt that rose inside him.

“A few answers for my troubled mind are all I ask, Your Grace,” he answered, bow stiff and smile tight.

“You do have one such mind. Anders, aren’t you? The Darktown Healer,” Elthina raised a hand to stop the guarding templars from coming forth, “you have done a lot of good work for the people here.”

 _Good work that your Chantry should’ve been doing._ “I am honored,” was all he said.

Elthina nodded then. “What answer would you need from me?”

Anders put himself a good distance away from the Templar guards (as far as he could, given his current audience) before speaking quietly. “I’m sure you know of the Knight-Commander request to annul the Circle. Your rejection has not stopped her to put the request forward to Val Royaux. She seeks to override your authority, Your Grace.”

“... I see you have been keeping up with the matters of the Gallows,” Elthina said.

“Grave matters of great concern, as you well know,” he crafted his words slowly and carefully, keeping an eye on the templars in the corner. Challenging Elthina to a battle of virtue was not what he came here for. “Hundreds, thousands of mage lives hang on the whims of Knight-Commander Meredith, and she decides to get what she wants regardless of your decision. I can’t bear to think Your Grace would condone this.”

“The Annulment has always been a last resort. I trust that Divine Justinia would make the best choice for all of us, as she has been carrying out the wills of Andraste and the Maker all these years.”

“We fear the Knight-Commander would not abandon her mad idea,” Anders pressed, “She has been flouting Chantry flaws and making more mages Tranquil by the masses for years!” He made a step forward, only to stop short when a clang of metal rose from the templars’ corner, “We’re just dying a slow death. Please hear our cries if nothing else would move you, Your Grace: the time has come to take a side.”

Elthina let out a long exhale. Her posture did not change. She held his eyes throughout, but both he and Justice combined could not make out the feelings behind hers.

“There is _no_ side to be taken. That is not the Maker’s will,” she finally said, “I feel for the mages, I do. But magic allows abuses beyond the scope of mortals. No matter that your fears are justified, I cannot turn on Andraste’s words and disrupt the peace that Kirkwall has long preserved.”

_Of course._

The answer was long expected, yet still felt like a dagger lodged in his back. Anders couldn’t stop a laugh from escaping his mouth. Elthina’s brows furrowed just a slight, but the sight only spread his smile impossibly further.

“We can’t disrupt the peace, yes, definitely,” Anders said, no longer bothering to hide his contempt. “The peace that allows children to be taken from their parents, locked in a tower for years and years, abused, raped, stripped of freedom and mind and the rights to live? The peace that bleeds us and kills us like poison so that you can sleep soundly at night? That the peace the Maker is preserving for Kirkwall?” Anders ground out the words, “That is no peace.”

The last phrase earned him several swords leveled to his throat, accompanied with the metallic clashes of armor and some warning growls from behind heavy helmets. They were now standing too close to his comfort. 

The Grand Cleric was no longer looking at him with kind eyes. Her expression had gone from impassive to stone-cold, not unlike the statues decorating the Chantry, and— was that a hint of a sneer? _Who would’ve thought?_

“Careful where your words get you, _child,_ ” was her answer to his speech, and the threat sent relief coursing through his body. 

_Oh, this makes a lot more sense,_ Anders smiled to himself. 

“...Forgive my stupidity. You are, of course, as always, right,” he tilted his head slightly, careful not to slice himself on the templars’ sharp blades. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace.”

He flashed her the most charming and toothy smile he could manage, sadly out of practice as he was. Elthina felt no love from it, he was sure. But the woman flicked her fingers toward her back and the templars retreated, letting Anders step out of the Chantry with no further commotion. 

Anders didn’t dally. He had gotten what he came here for.

Beliefs. The kind he’d never felt upon looking at any Chantry statue, no matter the prayers, no matter the powers that be. He was crushed with an indescribable weight, yet at the same time lit alight with fire. 

Anders sat in Hightown’s square a long time after that, watching people going on about their day while turning his choice over and over in his head. Faces of humans, elves and dwarves, smiling and laughing and yelling and crying but alive, burned into the back of his head, flashing between images of the bloodied hideout cave. 

He could not feel better, did not expect to. There would come the day when he would pay his crimes, give justice for those he’d wronged, would wrong. But now would be the time to act. The voice that was both him and Justice became louder, stronger. _There can be no compromise._ _There can be no peace._

But there was one last announcement to make. He turned his eyes toward the vacant window of Hawke’s mansion, and stood up from the long bench.

——————————

“I’m going to destroy the Chantry.”

Hawke dropped the book she had been reading, the object making a silent thud as it fell on the library floor and vanished into the shadows.

“Come again?” she blurted out.

“The plan derailed. The Mage Underground can’t act anymore, and I don’t— Justice and I can no longer ignore this.”

“And you… and you want to, what, destroy the Chantry… how?” Anders realized that it was the first time he saw Hawke struggle with her words. But he would not turn his back on her, not now.

He did not settle on the couch as he usually did. Anders stood at the middle of the room with Hawke just a few feet away, hovering over the same spot she’d been when Anders had entered.

“I’ve managed to gather a recipe for an… explosive,” he replied, “It would take some work to craft and sneak it into the Chantry basement, but with some help of our— of our remaining people, I can still do it.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Hawke said. The spirit blinked slowly at him, her whole body floating awkwardly in the air as she processed through what he just said. 

Hawke stared at him for a long time, and whatever it was in his eyes that she saw, the spirit hung back, eyes widened, jaw dropped. “You’re serious.” 

“Yes.”

“It’s the Kirkwall Chantry!” Hawke cried out. “Nothing good will come out of touching it with a twelve-foot pole, let alone blowing it up!! Why would you even do that?”

“Because the Chantry is the source of everything that’s wrong with the Circles, Hawke. The Templar Order is but their military arm. They have set up this system, have maintained it for hundreds of years, and they prevented everyone from seeing the truth of it. I need _everyone_ to see this, so they can stop pretending the Circle is a solution. And the mages need one last chance to fight back!”

“And they would just let you get away with bringing down the highest building in town with, what, a bruised shoulder? How would you plan to even survive that?”

 _There it is._ “I won’t.”

The spirit stared at him, incredulous. She was livid, her translucent figure burning a vivid blue. The whole mansion seemed to shiver under her anger.

“No.”

Anders squared his shoulders and answered. “It was me who proposed it. I can’t let anyone else take such responsibility.”

“Don’t.”

“Johann and Clarel are needed elsewhere, to help the mages when chaos breaks down—"

“Don’t fucking give me that.”

“Hawke…”

“No! Give me a pair of horns and call me a demon right now, but don’t _fucking_ give me that. ‘I’m going to help the mages and, oh, I might die by the way,’ is that it? You and your suicidal plans!” Hawke was straight out yelling at him now. “Do you ever care about yourself??”

“I do!” 

The rebuttal had Hawke reel back in surprise.

“I do care, Hawke,” Anders continued after a breath. “I knew I didn’t deserve to be treated the way I was. And if… if I, a messed-up excuse of a man – a coward, no principle, no responsibility – didn’t deserve it, then no other should have to go through it either,” oh, Karl. During the bad days, Anders still sometimes wished to have taken his place. Maybe Karl could’ve fixed this better than whatever Anders came up with; he’d always known the right things to say and do. But fate was not fair, wasn’t it? Good men and women like Karl and Selby were ripped from the world, while Anders remained.

Hawke hissed at him. “Don’t. Don’t you dare say that about yourself.” 

“You remember what I told you, that night when I came in from your front door?” Anders said, quietly. “I don’t throw my life away without care. I keep your words with me always, Hawke—” the spirit flinched as she heard it “—But some things matter more than my life. I have to do this.”

Hawke blinked. The veilfire on the wall fizzled with her, and Anders felt the temperature drop. Slowly the spirit shrunk in on herself, the blue of her body dimming into a dull glow that seemed to blend more and more into the library space. She kept looking at Anders with that mixed expression of disbelief and anger, her eyes bore into his, searching – for what, he did not know. Anders didn’t know what else to add, either, so he stayed silent. 

For all that he was determined, Justice a bulwark of willpower behind him, Anders knew what this meant to Hawke. To the both of them. He knew Hawke didn’t admit to her emotions freely. What she had given him – her feelings, her loneliness – were confessions born out of trust, brick built upon brick through all these long years. Hawke had made him her dearest, only friend, and he the spirit. 

Yet now he would go and break her heart anew. Leave her alone for another eternity.

Anders swallowed the bulk rising in his throat. Anything said would be too cruel now.

“… I have never managed to change your mind when it comes to these things. Maybe it was because I trusted you so much,” Hawke’s voice was a wave of whispers, echoing from every corner of the library, “I still trust you now.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“There is no other way, isn’t it? You can’t just stay because I am selfish. I might still lose you if I try to stop you – Kirkwall is no place for mages.”

Hawke’s cold breath swept through the lonely distance between them. Anders looked up. Her chest shuddered just a slight, blood flowing in a steady stream from her open wound.

“I understand,” she whispered, “Go, Anders.”

“I—”

“I wish you will find what you seek, I really do. Just—Please go.”

Anders nodded, stiff and acceptant. He closed his eyes and opened it again as the cold breezed through. Hawke was no longer around. It was a casual goodbye, just as she’d always done. Now Anders must do his part.

He made his way down the creaky stairs, chest hollowed out and mind exhausted. It had gone the way it should have. He had given Hawke no kindness. He would take her acceptance, they would part ways and then never meet again. It was farewell, but at least he was able to say goodbye.

The cellar door hasn’t moved. Anders removed the lock and walked past the threshold.

He had made but two steps before he heard her call.

“Anders!”

There was a sudden push – a strong wave of energy bursting out just from behind him – that made Anders stagger forward, his staff reaching out barely in time to keep him from falling face-first on the sewer floor. Anders swirled back and saw Hawke’s ghostly form tossed to the other side of the room, lyrium-blue eyes widening in shock. The spirit’s whole body shuddered as she struggled to regain her balance.

“Hawke—what? What are you doing?” Anders stammered. He stood uselessly on the other side of the door, with no damn clue what was happening.

“I’m coming with you.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I’m done staying in this stupid mansion while you go do Maker-know-what,” Hawke was fading in and out of focus, but her eyes were brighter and bluer than ever, as if they were sucking in all the light around her.

“You can’t be serious—”

“I am! I will kill Meredith, the Templars, Elthina, even the Divine, whoever that hurt you. Or I’ll possess them, I don’t know, don’t care. I’m done hurting. I’m done seeing you hurt!”

She lunged again for the door. Anders realized what was happening at once: there was a sharp sting as the Fade shifted, and a barrier sprung up as soon as the spirit hit the threshold. Anders braced himself with his staff, but the push was powerful, even more so than the first. It threw Hawke back with a force, so strong that for a short moment, the spirit’s light was completely snuffed out of her. 

Anders watched, completely stunned as veilfire on the wall blew out in a breath, leaving her flickering – fading, weakening – form as the only light in the dark cellar. Her eyes were blown wide, lips quivered with hurt and pain. For the first time Anders had seen her, Hawke looked small, shaken, and incredibly frail.

“No… No. I don’t—I don’t want to stay anymore…” the spirit blabbered as she reached again for the invisible wall between them, her ghostly hands pressing shakily against dusty air, “Why can’t I do this… Why—Why am I always useless like this…” 

Her eyes met Anders’, and his chest hurt something fierce. The threshold held firm and unmoving. Anders felt a warmth rolling down his cheeks as he stepped closer, his hand slowly reaching out, crossing over the barrier until it hovered just above her cheeks. The tingling feeling of lyrium pulled at his fingertips, its song calling for him like a nostalgic lullaby. Anders hoped Hawke could hear it too. 

A thought flashed through his mind then. He knew his touch could not reach her, not the way she wanted, so Anders kept his touch a hair away and gave her his smile. “You helped me,” he said quietly, “You don’t know how much.”

Hawke flinched as if slapped. A tear rolled down her cheek before she quickly reeled away from him, hands flying up to cover her face. Her shoulders were quivering. 

Anders dropped his hand. “Close the door, Hawke. I will find you again.”

Hawke refused to move, refused to look at him. The hole in his chest widened, threatening to swallow his heart. 

“Liar,” she said with a broken whisper, as Anders turned his back and stepped away.

——————————

The clock was ticking. It would be midnight soon.

——————————

Time had stopped moving since Anders left. Hawke covered the curtain with another layer of fabric, so that she could no longer feel the passage of time. Better this way. Better to forget he ever existed. Better to forget that, for six years, she was alive. 

Maybe she should talk to Bethany. Or Carver. About what? Lothering? The Deep Roads? No, scratch that, Void take the Deep Roads. Varric might be a better choice, what with that book he would’ve written. About her. Right, funny dwarf, thinking there was anything worth telling. Maybe that was how he died, thinking the fucking expedition was worth a damn sweat. Should’ve stayed in the Hanged Man, the idiot. But wasn’t he the one who invited her? Or was it Carver he talked to first? They were both little brothers, so it would make sense, no?

No, stop, ambiguous details could shove themselves. Maybe she shouldn’t have thought about anything outside this place at all. Ambiguous details, all of them. Mansion was safer, yes. Maybe another argument with Mother? About Maker-know-what. The Maker knew nothing. 

Hawke flitted about like that for days, or maybe weeks—months, _no way._ Any longer than days and Anders would be—no. No. No.

She needed to get her thoughts straight. Hawke could live with past memories, the long-gone ones. If she kept thinking in circles and stewing in her past failures, then she could focus on being a spirit. That was what she’d always done. The ones with Anders in it—too fresh. They would lead her straight forward and down into the Void, maybe into becoming a demon. _We can’t let that happen, can we? Father would be disappointed. Mother and Carver would be sad. Bethany looks up to me. And—and he would hate me._

_What does it matter anymore? They’re all gone._

“NO!” Hawke cried, and with a swing of her arms, the couch in her foyer flew straight against the wall before exploding in pieces of splinters, fabrics and moth-eaten padding.

The spirit didn’t even have two moments to collect her feelings. As the couch collided with the wall, Hawke spotted hints of red creep in around the corner, through whatever holes the curtains didn’t manage to cover up. _Red?_ As the world slowly drenched itself in a crimson shade, Hawke drew close to the windows, curious despite herself.

Chaos broke loose. Hawke did not feel the physical force, but her windows shattered with a choked cry, glass and wood fragments blowing right through her in less than a blink. The mansion groaned and coughed heavily as air swarmed in like a darkspawn horde, filling the whole foyer with dust. Her chandelier shuddered, threatening to fall down. 

Then came the voices, startled shouts and confused cries piercing through the air. Hawke stared dazedly through the giant hole her windows had left, and saw a Hightown filled with debris and broken pavements. The people slowly slip out of their houses onto the streets, pointing frantically toward the Chantry. 

Or, more precisely, where the Chantry should’ve been.

“Bastard,” she breathed, “he’s done it.”

Hawke pushed against the broken windows. Just like all her earlier efforts, a barrier pushed back, preventing her from slipping even a finger through. _Damn it!_ she cursed under her breath. _What now? What now?_

A long silence drew on after that. For a while, there were only the sounds of Hightown people shouting frantically at each other, asking after their loved ones, scrambling to put down the fires and the stray debris. Hawke paced back and forth in her foyer, feeling all kinds of helplessness and worries. Where was Anders now? And Meredith, and the mages? What were they even doing? 

Then she felt it. The shivering of the Fade. 

A cacophony of jumbled emotions pulled at the Veil, and Hawke felt them all. Fear and Terror, clawing at the edges. Despair with its frosted spears. Anger, pounding and screaming furiously, each cry dragging in more and more assaults. More demons.

They pushed from all corners against the foyer, ripping open whatever defenses there were between the Fade and her mansion. Hawke closed her eyes and felt the fabric of the Veil starting to tear. They were coming close. A dozen. A horde, perhaps. _Fuck._

A commotion started to pick up outside, but Hawke had no time to worry about what was happening in the real world. As the sound of demons grew louder and louder, she braced herself and gathered her own power. Spirit energy surged to her hands, and veilfire torches filled the whole mansion with vivid blue light. _Let them be a warning._ The weaker ones would know better than to face a spirit in its own domain, and Hawke was no mere spirit. 

If these demons escaped into the real world, the already frightened mages would become the biggest targets of all. No way she would let that happen. Not after Anders’ efforts. If she couldn’t come, then she would help this way.

When the first claw pierced through the Veil, Hawke was ready. 

“Demon heads on a spike, huh? I can think of some decoration ideas,” the spirit gritted through her teeth. She grinned. _They will learn not to mess with me._

——————————

“Crap. Crap. Crap!”

Demon remains littered across the mansion, pieces sticking everywhere: on the walls, on the ceilings, on Hawke’s portrait and her broken furniture. More kept coming.

Hawke fought more viciously than ever, a lifetime’s memories of fighting and killing branded in her reflexes. Her whole mansion rose against the invading force, ripping lesser demons apart while trapping the bigger ones in place until Hawke finished them with a blast of energy bolts. Yet a spirit’s power was not limitless, not even in its own demesne. Hawke did not know nor care how long the fight dragged on, but she could feel her power waning, each attack becoming less and less effective.

She was cutting through a Rage demon now, the viscous substance burning around her fingertips as the creature melted into a flaming puddle. _That one took too many strikes to finish, not good,_ Hawke mumbled to herself. A frost spell caught her shoulder from behind, and she whirled back just barely in time to dodge a Terror demon’s attack. 

She would be panting if she could. As it was, Hawke threw a hastily prepared blast, pushing the demons back and away from her. 

“Aren’t you some stubborn little blighters...” Hawke shifted out of the Despair demons’ range, rushing to enhance the repulsion glyph she planted on the broken windows. A creature of entirely too many legs and eyes – a Fearling, her mind supplied – lunged against it, only to be hurled back inside. Its attention spurred back toward Hawke, and it let out a distorted screech before picking up speed. Maker, but she hated spiders. Especially the demon-y kinds.

The damned creature did not manage to reach her, however. A spirit bolt caught it in midair, blasting it against the wall with a pitiful crunch, and the creature dissolved. Hawke was stunned for a short moment, realizing with jumbled memories that _no, it wasn’t me, nor any of my traps_. 

“What—” she managed to blurt out.

“Heads up, Hawke! The fight is not over,” a voice – all too familiar – called from beyond the Tear in the Veil, snapping Hawke’s attention back to the group of demons. A whirlwind of blue swept through the foyer, ghostly feathers trailing its path, leaving the crawling horrors beneath frozen in a casket of ice. 

Hawke barely managed to dodge another Despair demon’s attack. She lunged forward in reflex, tackling it to the ground and crushing its head before the demon could slip from her grip again. Green dust spilled from her fingers as the demon disintegrated, leaving behind a twisted mess of rags and liquid substance.

“You—!” Hawke snapped her head in the direction of the voice. She couldn’t see anything from where she stood, except for a blur of light. From there, spirit energy surged ahead and disrupted the Veil, stunning the demons below.

He called out to her again, “Last wave! Finish them!” and this time she listened without a beat. Hawke gathered the rest of her power for a final spell; force magic pulled and squeezed their remaining enemies into a twisted ball of lava, rags, raw flesh and strangled screams.

Then she tore it open with a cry. Pieces of demons flew over all directions; what did not end up on the walls, the floor or the ceiling crumbled into green dust, before the Fade sucked them back in. 

And then all was quiet.

The mansion was a mess. Hawke didn’t care. She scrambled toward the Tear in the Veil with her remaining energy, almost dropping to the ground halfway through. Her vision was fading in and out of focus, but she could see him on the other side: tall and proud in a set of shining armor, long sword burning in his grip, feather pauldrons hugging his shoulders. His eyes were blazing with blue fire. He looked glorious. 

And he was smiling at her.

“…Anders? Justice?” Hawke stammered, one hand reaching out. She stopped short a hair away from the Tear, suddenly gripped with fear. _Is it real? Or is it one of my illusions?_

“Hello Hawke,” he said calmly.

“How—why—”

“My apologies. When we…when we said goodbye, I wasn’t sure if this would be achievable. We forfeited our life as payment for those we’ve killed. The spark has been lit: the mages will have the choice to fight. And we are both Home.”

“That’s—” Hawke opened her mouth, then promptly closed it. She didn’t know what to say.

She must have done one hell of a face, for Anders – Justice – softened his eyes. “I did not lie, Hawke. I said I would find you again,” his smile widened, “and so I did.”

Hawke didn’t know if she had any tears left, but she sobbed nonetheless. She covered her face with her hands, shaking and shrinking into herself.

He called out to her again. “Hawke. Look at me, Hawke. We don’t have much time.”

Look she did, into his stupid, stupid, handsome face. Why did he look so sad? Hawke was the sad one. 

“What do you mean? You’re back in the Fade. Spirits don’t care about time!”

“Anders’ memories are keeping me here, but it is not forever. I am keeping the demons away from this Tear in the Veil, and my power is draining fast. I will have to leave soon, back to where I started,” he gestured to the space beyond the Veil.

Hawke didn’t understand. She refused to. She just saw him again.

“Are you saying that—that you’re just going to leave? Again? After all this?”

“Not by choice.”

“Bullshit.”

He laughed, the sound rippling through her like gentle winds caressing a lake. 

“Time and space do not work the same way in the Fade. I have traveled far, and I will keep fighting for the Cause in whatever way I can. Maybe this time I will end up just next door. Maybe it would be miles away, or even further. Maybe we will never know,” he took a step back, and panic surged through Hawke again, “But this is your Home too, if you wish it to be. 

“You have a strong will, Hawke. Cross the Veil,” he smiled softly, “Come find me.”

Hawke’s eyes widened as she realized what he was asking. She could feel the Fade tug at her whole being. Pulling her in, not pushing her back. 

The mansion stood around her, shaken from the explosion and thrashed from their fight with the demons, but it was still standing. It was broken, and it was dirty, but it had been all she had left.

She’d always had the choice to leave, Hawke realized. She’d just never decided to do so. Hawke had never believed in the Maker’s side in the beyond; there had been nothing for her in the Fade. For so long she had convinced herself, that what she loved had been in the real world, and the only way to keep herself from falling apart was to hold onto the memories. Who would remember them for her, otherwise? 

But now her heart was standing in front of her, just a step away. This time she could come.

He waited patiently on the other side of the Veil, even as his form was slowly fading. _“If you wish it to be,”_ he’d said. The fool.

“Do you think I can hug you now?” Hawke asked.

He blinked at the sudden question, and after a short second, chuckled in understanding. Then he spread his arms. His smile was so beautiful. “I don’t see why you can’t, love.”

Hawke did not feel the world change as she lunged herself into the Fade, but she felt _him._ She wrapped her arms around his neck and he embraced her, filling her with his emotions – his strength of will, his longing, his sadness, she could feel them all. She felt nothing like a mortal, but at the same time, she felt _everything_.

Then the feelings vanished, as quick as they’d come, and Hawke came to herself in the Fade. The Tear had closed. He was nowhere to be seen. 

Green and blue filled her vision, stretching across a shifting landscape: she saw an empty village that blended and faded into a bursting city – Kirkwall, it seemed – then pressed itself into rocky slopes and vast plains. Hawke didn’t know where she was. She only knew this place was hers.

She remembered what he'd said. _“I have traveled far, and I will keep fighting for the Cause in whatever way I can.”_ Hawke snorted; of course he wouldn’t stop. He wouldn’t be Justice otherwise.

“Hello?” a small voice called out to her from behind. Hawke turned back and saw the ghost of a smile – it was a spirit, halfway through taking the form of a small human. The spirit flitted close to her then drew back, letting out an excited noise before circling over her head in a bouncy rhythm.

“Hello,” Hawke said.

“I called out to you in the past, but you did not answer. Then demons scared me off. There were a lot of them. But I watched, from a distance! And now I’m here again!” the little spirit pressed ahead, its buzzing light almost touching her nose, “I am Curiosity. And you are Purpose.”

“Am I?”

“You are! You are searching for something, aren’t you? Days and nights, always. But you are Hawke too. You thought you were missing, so you were scared of losing more.”

Hawke smiled. “Yes, I think so.”

“Then tell me, tell me! I will help you too!”

He had his quest, and she had hers, but that would not stop them. She wouldn’t be herself, otherwise. 

Hawke shrugged. “My life, I guess. And a spirit of Justice who calls himself Anders.”

She started walking the Fade, the little spirit bouncing excitedly behind her.

\- END -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're at the end of the ride!!!!! ... To be honest I have so many things to say that I fear I will turn this into an excessive rambling, so let me just say that I'm extremely grateful that you're reading these lines right now.
> 
> There were probably many mistakes, many places that can be improved, but I hope the whole piece still spoke through.
> 
> Did you love it? Hate it? Want to talk more about it? Please let me know under the comment! You can also find with me on Tumblr, under my account [alienturnipp](https://alienturnipp.tumblr.com/), I'm always open to chat!
> 
> Thank you again!


End file.
